


I Stand Relieved

by Helen8462



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Horror, Lower Decks, Major Character Deaths under Temporal Circumstances, Prompt Fic, Suspense, Temporal Prime Directive, Unreliable Narrator, competition fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-23 12:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14332539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen8462/pseuds/Helen8462
Summary: Decisions, decisions.  Which ones are right and which ones are wrong?  Armed with only a smattering of strange and disturbing clues, the crew of Voyager enters a race against time to change fate.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiaCooper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaCooper/gifts).



> Official Business: This story is my entry for Gamma Group, Third Round of the JC Cutthroat Fiction Competition. Due April 28, 2018. The prompt was: "Your fic must be based around the temporal prime directive."
> 
> Thank Yous: A huge thank you to my beta, Klugtiger. If she'd have charged me by the comma (or by the hour) she'd be rich (seriously, that gal is awesome). Also thanks to the folks that bounced ideas with me along the way and pre-read (LittleObsessions, Killermanatee, Seren and everyone else) I owe you big!  
> As always, grateful to Talsi74656 for running this wicked competition.
> 
> Author's Note: This story is for MiaCooper. I originally started writing it to a challenge that she gave me, but then got stuck. Talsi's competition saved this story from the trash bin. Hope you like it, Mia.

* * *

  _So many versions of just one memory, and yet none of them were right or wrong._  
_Instead, they were all pieces._  
_Only when fitted together, edge to edge, could they even begin to tell the whole story._  
-Sarah Dessen, Just Listen

* * *

Of the three on board, he is the most relaxed.

For the entirety of the journey, he has been sitting in the rear of the small craft, reading and meditating, content to stay quiet and alone.  Conversation in the front compartment rouses him now, and he peers forward, stretches his limbs, and stands.

The youngest of the three, dressed in blue, is anxious.  Since having left the planet several hours ago, he has been pacing back and forth, back and forth, mumbling to himself.  One would bet that his thoughts are tumultuous, perturbed, laced with niggling fear.

The individual at the controls also appears nervous, but in a different way.  He seems… excited. Charged, perhaps, by the duty of piloting. Much of his conversation has been focused on a certain person, or two, for whom he cares a great deal.

But the one in the back, he is at ease.  “Mr. Telfer,” he calls, moving forward. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m, um.  I’m fine. Thank you, Sir.”

“Have a nice nap, Chakotay?” the pilot asks.

Sir simply chuckles as he slides into the adjacent seat and activates his console.

“How much longer?” presses the anxious one.

“What’s the matter, Billy? Not having fun with us?” teases the pilot.

“It’s too small in here,” the one called Telfer, or Billy, says. “I’ll be glad when we’re back onboard _Voyager_.”  Telfer-or-Billy has finally taken a seat but his foot is bobbing and twitching, he’s tapping his fingers on the console.  His constant motion and mumbling prompts Sir to turn.

“Well then, it’s a good thing we’re home.”

Through the viewport a large vessel comes into sight.  Telfer-or-Billy exhales and finally stops moving.

“Paris to _Voyager_ , request permission to dock,” says the pilot into the air.

Sir scratches the back of his neck, just below the hairline.  “A sight for sore eyes,” he says, but what he means is that there are people on board he cares about.  They are his family, and there is one individual specifically whom he has missed more than any of the others.

Her face is vivid in his mind.

A disembodied voice beckons them to approach.  The large vessel now takes up the entire viewscreen.

This _Voyager_ is beautiful indeed.  Sleek. Refined.

Powerful.

If the ship is indicative of the crew it keeps, then we will do well here.

We will do very well indeed.


	2. Days 1 - 4

* * *

**Day 1**

Dear Diary,

Today was such an exciting day!  I got to play on the holodeck for two hours with Seven, had a picnic lunch with Neelix in the airponics bay, and the Doctor was too busy to give me my cell biology test!  It’s like everything that could go right, did.

Oh, but the most exciting part of my day has been a total secret. 

This morning when I woke up, I found a gorgeous box on my nightstand.  It was wrapped in lavender paper, the same color as the Orission violets that used to belong to Kes.  There was a silver sparkly bow on top with a ribbon wrapped around the sides.  It left glitter all over my hands and my nightgown and the table.

My mom must have dropped it off in the middle of the night.  She was already gone for work by the time I woke up, so I couldn’t ask.  My birthday is still over a month away, but I’m guessing this is the first of a bunch of surprises she has hinted at.  She says that a sixth birthday is a big deal for Ktarian children.

Okay, okay.  So.  What was in the box?  The most beautiful gold necklace with a tear-shaped blue gem.  When I hold it up to the light, it reminds me of the way plasma flows through the warp core.  It’s so beautiful, I can’t stop looking at it. 

I’m still wearing the necklace now, though I’ve kept it hidden all day.  As much as I’ve wanted to show it off, I like keeping the secret.  Mom hasn’t mentioned it, so I think it must be one of those curious Ktarian traditions I haven’t read about yet.

Either way, I’m sure she can tell by my smile that I have absolutely loved the gift.   I’m never going to take it off. I’ll have to be careful wearing it to bed though, I don’t want it to get tangled and torn, the chain is very delicate.

-N

* * *

**Day 2**

To: Captain Kathryn Janeway  
From: Ambassador Neelix  
Stardate: 54722.7

I’d like to make you aware of an incident in the mess hall today. 

At approximately 1130 hours, give or take, an unidentified member of _Voyager’s_ crew prepared a rather large meal from our salad bar, ladled a heaping bowl of soup, and then let it go completely to waste. 

Furthermore, the tray in question was assumed by many to be reserving a spot at one of the most popular tables.  You don’t know how many people I saw searching for a lesser-quality seat, believing that one was already taken.

I let that food sit all day in hopes that someone would come to claim it.  All day.  Until the lettuce had wilted, the croutons were like rocks, and my delicious soup assumed a tepid temperature.

After seven years, you’d think that every one of us would know better than to take food and simply leave it to spoil.  Fresh fare is a luxury on this vessel, and some of us go to great pains to make sure that it is readily available.

I am asking that you kindly remind the crew that we have a food stasis unit if they are called away in an emergency – or I would be more than happy to box up a lunch to go.  This kind of waste should not be tolerated.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Neelix

* * *

**Day 3**

Hello baby girl, 

Today you almost made your mommy a permanent part of main engineering.  How, you ask?  Well, let me tell you.   A power converter module burned out, and of course it was the one wedged under the secondary support console.  A month ago this wouldn’t have been an issue, but you’ve grown so big… It wasn’t until I was half-wedged under there that I started to think maybe it wasn’t the brightest idea. 

Ashmore saw me struggling and volunteered to extract the unit, but, call it Klingon pride, I wanted to take this prisoner myself.  I wanted to get my hands dirty again.  People have been treating me with such kid gloves… It’s been a while.  It took a while, too.  I ended up three hours past the end of my shift.

Anyway, I was just about to decouple the housing when your father walked up and reminded me for the millionth time that I “don’t have to have everything done before the baby comes.” 

A good thing, too, or you’d have to wait thirty-five more years to be born.

Tom – er, Daddy – was blathering on about how I wasn’t doing us any favors by working myself to exhaustion and that’s when my hyperspanner slipped; it grounded the housing against the… you know what?  You don’t care.  It made a very loud, very surprising, snapping-zapping sound – I know you heard it because you kicked me – and I whacked my head against the bottom of the console.  

This headache is a perfect complement to the back ache, sore feet, and general heartburn of my day.

I’m still not sure what failed with the module, but I left a work order for gamma shift to replace it.  Odd thing is, I noticed another module in the corner of my office.  I really hope we don’t have a systemic issue on our hands.  Pulling and repairing them all would take until you’re three years old. 

Oh, Daddy has our dinner ready. 

Night night, baby.  Mommy loves you.

* * *

**Day 4**

Lt. Michael Ayala  
Personal Log  
Stardate 54728.4

The practical joke thing has reared its ugly head yet again.  I thought I put an end to this stupidity after Tom hazed me at the conn.  I threatened to pummel him then; apparently, he’s having trouble with his memory.

This time he went too far.  Bastard left that nudie picture of Chell’s wife in my quarters. Smack in the middle of my dresser, practically on top of the photo of my own family.  God, what a shock.  She’s just… lying there.  On that beach, all wet and blue… gold piercings… in places I never wanted to see. 

The computer didn’t have a record of someone entering my quarters.  Must have been a site-to-site.  As soon as I prove it was Paris, he’s going to wish he was never born.  It’s a good thing he’s got a kid on the way, I mean, I’m not about to make the little one grow up without a father, but I might see to it that she’s an only child…

I have to go wash my brain now.


	3. Day 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Trigger Warning: This chapter contains very mild gore and descriptions of a corpse._

* * *

**Day 5**

Autopsy Log: Audio Transcript  
Attending Physician: Emergency Medical Hologram  
Stardate: 54729.8

I will be performing a cursory autopsy on the body discovered in the morgue just moments ago.  I’m beginning with a preliminary external exam, aided by a tricorder. 

Deceased appears to be a dark-skinned Vulcan male, approximately ninety to one-hundred ten years old.  He is dressed in a standard issue, yellow Starfleet uniform with rank signifying that he was a lieutenant commander.  At first glance, his physical attributes render him nearly identical to our Mr. Tuvok.  It is… disturbing, to say the least.

Liver temperature is ambient. Rigor mortis has faded, and bloating and putrefaction have begun, indicating time of death to be 36 to 42 hours before the body was put in stasis.

While I continue to wait for the captain to join me, I’m going to move on to an inspection of the injuries.  Victim presents with a perimortem burn to his left shoulder consistent with a phaser or other energy weapon set to a very high level, perhaps to kill. 

Victim’s face has been marred.  There is significant trauma to the nose and right eye socket.  Tricorder is registering broken nasal, lacrimal, maxillary, and zygomatic bones, as well as a hairline fracture in the left mandible.  There is a deep laceration to the left cheek.  Minimal bruising indicates that he was killed very shortly after these were received.

I do not intend to move the body until the captain joins me; however, the tricorder is registering a massive wound consistent with a blow to the back of the head. Hm…  There’s a puncture wound of some kind in the occipital region.  Hard to say more without moving the corpse.

My initial findings point to the cause of death as blunt force trauma to the head.  There is a significant amount of blood soaked into the upper portion of the deceased’s uniform, however there is not –

Ah, Captain.  Glad you could finally join me.

_You said you had something urgent –  Oh… oh my._

It’s Lieutenant Tuvok, at least at first glance. 

_I can see that. But I happen to know that Tuvok is on the bridge, so would you care to tell me how he is also here?_

I’m afraid I can’t just yet.  I found him not twenty minutes ago.

_You just found him here?  Like this?_

Yes.  I walked back for a reagent and there he was.

_Computer.  When did the body of Lieutenant Tuvok appear in the morgue?_

~Lieutenant Tuvok is on the bridge.  Please restate the question. ~

_Computer.  Run a bioscan, include living and deceased individuals.  Who is in the morgue?_

~Captain Janeway and Lieutenant Tuvok are in the morgue. ~

_Okay.  Computer, when did Lieutenant Tuvok enter the morgue?_

~Insufficient information to respond.  Lieutenant Tuvok is on the bridge. ~

_It’s too early for this.  Alright, run every test you can think of to confirm his… the body’s identity.  I’ll postpone the staff meeting by an hour.  Get Tuvok – or whoever is on my bridge that looks like Tuvok – down here and check him out, too._

Yes, Captain.

Oh, I left the log running.  Computer, pause recording.

* * *

Sir attends the senior staff meeting every day at the same time.  Today, however, the meeting is held an hour later than usual.  He is disturbed by the fact that he doesn’t know the reason for the delay.

Upon entering the briefing room, his attention is immediately drawn to the captain.  She is standing, hands planted on the surface of the elongated table, and from the shape of her lips he knows that something is very wrong.

Once everyone is settled, she begins.  “First and foremost, we have a bit of a mystery to solve.”  She takes a seat and he watches the way her fingers lace together, then she looks to the hollow-Doctor.

“I discovered the body of Mr. Tuvok in the morgue early this morning,” he says.

“Ok, I’ll bite.” Paris leans in.  “Tuvok’s right here.  Unless…” he side-eyes the stoic one who appears unfazed.

“This is our Tuvok,” the Doctor finishes, mildly annoyed.  “I found a different one in the morgue this morning.”

“Could the body be a clone?  Or an imposter of some kind?  8472, maybe?” says Mr. Kim, alert and eager.

“He’s not 8472,” the Doctor replies.  “But until I’m able to run a more in-depth set of scans, I won’t know exactly _what_ he is.”

“How did he get here?” Kim is full of questions. 

“Internal sensors didn’t detect anything out of the ordinary,” informs the captain.  “But I’m hoping that B’Elanna and Seven will come up with some way to determine why he’s here now.”

The one with child scratches her head absently, but remains silent.  Sir notices, though he doesn’t say anything.  Instead, he glances to the captain and she speaks for him.

“B’Elanna?”

“Yes?”

“You look like you have something on your mind,” she encourages.

“I’m not exactly sure…” says B’Elanna.  “The other day I removed a damaged power module in engineering.  When I dropped it in my office, I noticed that there was another one in the corner.  I was a little worried that we had a systemic issue, but otherwise I didn’t pay it much mind.”

“And now?” Sir asks.  He is intrigued more than concerned.

“This morning, when the meeting was delayed, I decided to check them both out, see how they failed.  That’s when I noticed that they were the _same_ module.  Same serial number, same exact failure, and none of my people know where it came from.”

Paris leans in toward B’Elanna, care and affection in his eyes.  “And now you’re thinking that those two modules and the two Tuvoks could be related?”

“It’s possible,” she shrugs.  “I just figured that someone at the shipyards made a mistake and reused the serial number.  But, maybe not.”

The captain nods, her brow tightly knit.  Her every movement attracts Sir’s attention.  “Ask again,” she says.  “Be one-hundred percent sure that none of your staff removed it.  Have them check every other module and all the spares.   Then take them both apart with a fine-toothed comb and see what you can learn.”  She turns her attention to the rest of her staff.  “Until we can unravel a bit more of this mystery, I want all of you and your officers to keep your eyes and ears open for other strange happenings onboard.  I don’t care how insignificant something seems; if it sounds odd, I want to know.”

The room responds with a chorus of “Yes, Ma’am’s.”

“Dismissed.”

Sir remains behind.  He has something else to report but wants to do so in private. 

“Another day, another adventure, eh Chakotay?” the captain asks him, her tone more casual than it has been.  Just the sound of her voice speaking his name evokes a physical response within him, one that he quickly tamps down.

“Actually, I was just thinking about something I overheard in the mess hall this morning.”

“Oh?”

He taps his combadge.  “Chakotay to Ayala.”

_‘Ayala here.’_

“Mike, please come to the senior briefing room.  And bring the object you found yesterday”

_‘You want me to bring the picture?’_

“Yes.  And grab Chell on your way.”

 _‘Alright, Boss.’_  

Sir looks to his captain.  A smile forms across his lips.

“You’re going to get a kick out of this one.”

* * *

Only the face of the deceased is visible, the rest is covered in a grey sheet.  For this, Sir is grateful.

“This is indeed Tuvok,” the Doctor says.  “But he’s experienced a little bit more excitement than the Tuvok on the bridge.”

“Care to elaborate?” the captain asks. 

Sir’s stomach churns at the sight of the body, ruined and lifeless.  He has seen death like this, brutal and senseless, too many times before.  He believes the morgue feels colder than other places, something to do with ghosts and spirits.  It takes a moment before he can push the macabre things aside, locking them away again to focus on the mystery at hand. 

“This Tuvok is genetically the same as ours,” the Doctor says.  “Aside from the external injuries sustained just before death, Tuvok displays all of the same physical attributes I would expect to find in our chief.  He has a fully-healed break in his left fibula, another in the third metacarpal of his left hand, and several areas of residual scar tissue from where I removed Borg implants last year, to name a few.”

“All of those things could have happened to a Tuvok from an alternate universe,” the captain says.  Have you checked –“

“His quantum signature?  Yes.  It’s identical.  This Tuvok is _our_ Tuvok.  With a few extra battle scars and a healthy dose of chroniton radiation, that is.”

“Chroniton radiation?” Sir’s eyes dart back to the captain.  She’s rubbing her forehead; he knows that she –

“I hate temporal anomalies…” she mutters, confirming his thought.

“He has another identifying feature,” the Doctor informs.  “One which, up until now, I was keeping in confidence.  In light of the situation, Mr. Tuvok – the living – has granted me permission to share this with both of you.”

A computer screen blinks to life.  Sir struggles to make sense of the set of brain scans before him.

“Our Tuvok is suffering from a rare, degenerative neurological condition.  We’ve known about it for a few months now.  I am treating him, and his ability to perform his duties is not yet in question, however, in time...”

The captain’s expression grows even more pained as they are left to draw their own conclusions.  This news has come as an unwelcome surprise and Sir shares her concern for their friend, but the lingering questions remain.

“I’m divulging this information because our guest suffered from the same affliction,” the Doctor continues.  He enhances a section of the second brain on the viewscreen.  “However, the damage done by the disease has advanced ever-so-slightly.  If I had to calculate based on the rate of progression we’ve seen so far, I’d say that the deceased is approximately one to three months older than the one upstairs.”

“Older?” Sir questions. 

“So, this Tuvok _is_ from our future…” the captain realizes aloud.

“It looks that way, though I’m a Doctor, not a temporal physicist.  But I’ll add two other pieces to the mystery.  This Tuvok suffered a broken bone which was left untreated.  A broken toe, to be exact.  It has been left to heal on its own, so I can conclude that the injury was sustained approximately two weeks before his death.”

“Why wouldn’t he have been treated?” the captain asks.

“He may not have even known it happened.  Vulcans have an unusually high tolerance for pain; it could have been nothing more than a nuisance.”

“Mystery on top of mystery,” she sighs.

Sir fights the urge to put a hand on her shoulder as her gaze rests upon the body of her fallen friend.  “You said there was something else?” he asks.

“Ah, yes.  It might not bear mentioning, but in the interest of vetting all details…” The Doctor moves a hand to each side of the deceased’s head.  “Excuse me, Mr. Tuvok,” he says softly before turning the cranium to the side.

“I discovered two very small puncture wounds just below the occipital bone, right here at the base of the skull.  To the untrained eye they appear superficial.  But in actuality they’re akin to incisions.  They extend through the foramen magnum and into the cerebellum.”

“Someone… pierced his brain?” the captain asks.  “Why?”

“It would appear so, and I have no idea.”

Sir’s stomach knots.

“Keep investigating," the captain says, rubbing her forehead.  "Let me know what you find.”

Sir follows her down-turned gaze as she observes a fleeting moment of silence.  Then, as he escorts her from Sickbay, he kneads at the back of his neck and curses the headache brewing there.

 


	4. Days 6 - 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter contains mention of illicit drug use._

* * *

**Day 6**

Crewman Ben Carlson  
Personal Log  
Stardate: 54731.8

We’re supposed to report anything out of the ordinary.  Those are our orders.  I should report this.  I know I should.  But I can’t.  I’d be severely reprimanded, possibly removed from duty all together - forced into rehab or therapy for sure.  Beyond that, I’d be pitied, judged… no one on board would treat me the same again.  No one would trust me.

‘There’s Carlson,’ they’d say.  ‘He couldn’t handle it, and he put us all at risk.’

I can’t report this.  Instead, my guilty conscious is going to put it all in a log. 

A couple months after we learned about what happened to our Maquis comrades in the Alpha Quadrant, _Voyager_ stopped for shore leave on a friendly little planet.  And on that friendly little planet, I met Rishern-Tamm.  Tamm was a short man, a very intuitive man.  He knew exactly what I needed and exactly what I could offer in return.

The night after I met Tamm, I stole two kilograms of trilithium resin from our waste bins – ‘cause let’s face it, B’Elanna wasn’t paying attention – and for it, Tamm gave me a very nice-size bag of white powder.  It’s a strange drug, not like anything I’ve used before.  It has the consistency of cake-flour and smells like lemonade, but it sure gets the job done.

That was three years ago.

The powder, I forget what he called it now, well… it takes the edge off.  In the beginning, it was the only thing keeping me sane.  I was so consumed by grief and anger I couldn't see straight.  

The powder helps me forget.  If I use too much of it, I forget a lot.  When I first started, I forgot whole days at a time, so I have to be careful.  And I am, I’m very careful.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a real problem or anything like that.  I’m still able to do my duty, I never use when I’m going on shift.  But sometimes, when I’ve got a day off here or there, it’s hard to keep from thinking about them...  All those innocent people, my family, my friends, all gone. 

It’s been getting easier, actually.  Time and the powder has helped.  And now, it seems, when I was just about to give up the habit completely, I’ve doubled my stash.

I should report this.  If I don’t, at the very least, I should destroy it.  I should destroy all of what’s left and finally get clean. But, then again, what’s a snort every week or so?  It’s not like I can’t do my job, and who knows what shit we'll run into next out here.  I might just need every last gram.

And, to the current situation, how much relevance can a half-bag of uppers really be in the grand scheme of things? 

Back under the mattress it goes.  And with this log my conscious is clean.

* * *

**Day 8**

Seven of Nine  
Daily Log  
Stardate: 54738.3

At 1100 hours, Ensign Kim and I commenced cataloging and examining the temporally displaced items recently found onboard. 

The objects, in order of their discovery, were as follows:

  * Gold necklace with moonstone pendant – Naomi Wildman’s quarters
  * Framed photograph of Crewman Chell’s wife – Lt. Ayala’s quarters
  * Failed power converter module (SN: PCN-849-8210) – Lt. Torres’s office
  * Pair of corduroy men’s slippers – Lt. Nicoletti’s quarters
  * Half-eaten chocolate bar – Lt. Winford’s quarters
  * Hyperspanner (SN: 02-B-031) – Jeffries Tube 14, BB Section 4
  * Five empty ration bags – Senior briefing room
  * Mug containing trace amounts of green tea with honey – Captain Janeway’s ready room
  * A book titled “The Tale of Genji” – Ens. Ashmore’s quarters



Ensign Kim, ever-thorough, noted that we had neglected to include Tuvok.  To which I retorted, he would not have fit in the bin.

Neelix also reported a mystery tray of food including a chopped salad and soup, but it had been previously recycled.

Our brainstorming session began with a discussion of what the objects had in common. 

Four of the items:  the slippers, the photograph, the necklace, and the book – were found in quarters not belonging to their original owners and have exact duplicates which exist in our timeframe.  The necklace was intended as a gift from Neelix for Naomi’s birthday which will occur in five weeks’ time.  The slippers and book belong to Crewmen Murphy and Nozawa, respectively.

Additionally, the hyperspanner and the power module have serial numbers matching versions already on the ship.  Commander Tuvok also has a counterpart onboard.

Seven of the items:  The chocolate bar, the five ration bags, the mug of tea – could not be attributed to any one person but were out of place in their surroundings.  The captain does not drink tea and the computer recorded no one in her ready room to have left it on her desk.  We have not utilized food rations in over a year.  Lieutenant Winford is allergic to chocolate but found the half-eaten confection on his coffee table.

After lengthy discussion and several varieties of scans, we were unable to discern a pattern or functionality to the items, their locations, or their owners, leading us to the conclusion that the objects have been sent to us randomly, as an effect from some yet-to-be-determined cause. 

We were concluding our session when Lieutenant Paris entered with a collapsed medical cot to add to the list.  It had appeared half an hour earlier in the middle of the mess hall.  Neelix complained that the item, complete with a very large bloodstain, was disrupting lunch.

A DNA analysis was not performed as the presence of nano-probes were detected via tricorder. 

The blood on the cot belongs to me.

* * *

“Everything about this situation rubs me the wrong way, Chakotay,” the captain says, walking even-shouldered with him down the hall.  “I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel like we’re headed into something bad here.”

Sir considers his words carefully as he enters the turbolift behind her.  He doesn’t wish to feed into her worry, but he cannot deny that he, too, is deeply troubled by recent events.  “Deck one,” he orders, deciding finally that honesty is best.

“I _can_ put my finger on it.  In the last week we’ve been gifted a dead body, a bunch of random objects in the wrong places, and now, a bloodied cot shows up in the mess hall.  These things are concerning enough if we didn’t also believe they’re coming from our own future.”

“Temporal mechanics,” she swears under her breath.  “Have I mentioned I hate temporal mechanics?”

He chuckles slightly.  “You have.”

“I hate it almost as much as I hate jumping to conclusions.” 

The lift comes to a halt and so does he, barely stopping her forward motion with an outstretched arm.

A jagged chunk of metal, only slightly smaller than Sir, is lodged at the entry to the bridge. Two officers are struggling to move it. 

“Sorry Captain, Commander,” says one of the men.   

“One, two, three…” the other officer counts and then the bulkhead shifts and rolls to the side. 

“It showed up a minute ago,” the broad one, Ayala, explains.  “Just… popped right out of thin air.”

She sighs and looks to him.  Sir reads the trepidation in her eyes and knows her words before she speaks them.

“Very bad.”

* * *

Sir is the last to enter the impromptu evening meeting, though no one seems to pay his tardiness any mind.  He sizes up the room and observes that the attendees are an equal mix of concerned and caffeinated.

B’Elanna, his friend, takes to the floor.  He thinks for just a moment that she looks tired, she’s working herself much too hard.  He is worried for her unborn child and makes a mental note to ensure she’s getting enough rest.

“So far we’ve been unable to predict when or where something will appear,” B’Elanna reports.  “Seven, Harry, and I have been working with three different teams around the clock, and we just cannot crack the code.  The only thing we can say is that the objects are showing up with greater frequency.  What started out as about one object per day, is now more like four or five.”

“At this rate we’re going to need to hold a garage sale,” Paris says.

“We did get lucky with that giant chunk of bulkhead,” B’Elanna continues.  “Nicoletti was quick on the draw and took readings of the spatial tear the moment it happened.  It will take time, but we can use that information to adjust our sensors.”

“What about _when_ these things are coming from,” the captain asks.  The furrow which has become a permanent feature of her brow has Sir greatly concerned.

“Tuvok,” B’Elanna says matter-of-factly.  “He’s pretty much what we have to go by right now.  Tuvok, and the necklace.”

“And the melon,” interjects Seven.

Sir looks to his right. “What melon?”

“Ensign Bronowski discovered a rotted melon under one of the shelves in the airponics bay a few hours ago,” Seven explains. “The plant which yields the fruit is still in its germination phase.  The ensign estimated it would take at least another nineteen days to grow a specimen of that size.”

“That’s assuming it’s the first piece of fruit,” the captain muses.

“Correct.”

“Okay, so we’re looking at anywhere from three weeks to… three months, if you take into account Tuvok’s body,” Paris deduces.

“The necklace for Naomi would be in about five weeks,” Kim reminds.  “That seems like a consistent time-frame.”

“Provided that the necklace wasn’t just sitting there for a while,” Paris adds.

“Wouldn't she have opened it on her birthday?” asks Kim.

“It is possible that she was not there to open it,” offers Seven.

The room becomes hushed and anxiety ripples around the table, hurrying Sir’s thoughts.  The prospect of something happening to the child is too disturbing for him to dwell on.

“We have a lot of evidence and a lot of speculation,” the captain says, drawing his attention again.  “What we don’t have are facts.  We _need_ facts.”  She is growing agitated and he wants nothing more than to allay her frustration but cannot think of a meaningful way to do so. 

“It would appear that _facts_ are only to be had as we gather more data from more objects over time,” Seven reminds.

“Maybe we’ll be zapped a padd with a bunch of logs on it,” Paris muses. 

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” The captain splays her hands flat on the table once again and purses her lips.  “Unfortunately, we can’t wait until something like that comes through.”

“Nor would we be able to act on it if it did,” Tuvok states bluntly.

Sir notices that all eyes are now on the stoic security officer. 

Holding everyone’s attention, Tuvok elaborates.  “In the event that someone from our future is trying to send a message to affect change in the past, we would be duty bound by the Temporal Prime Directive to ignore it.  I needn’t remind you, this is an oath we have all sworn.”

Sir hates the way the Tuvok’s eyebrow rises as if there will be no further debate.  He anticipates that several attendees will argue this point, but the captain stops everyone with her hands in the air.

“We will cross the Prime Directive bridge when and if we get to it,” she says.  “For now, I’ll take every piece of evidence we can find.  And, if we can’t predict when or where these things will appear, we need to find them as soon as they do.  B’Elanna, Harry,” she turns to them.  “Your top priority will be upgrading the sensors on each deck to alert us the moment a spatial tear occurs.

“We’ll have to hand-calibrate every sensor,” B’Elanna tells her.  “It will take days to cover every area of the ship.”

“Use whatever resources you need, but make it happen.” 

The captain leans toward Sir next and he is at full attention.

“In the meanwhile, Chakotay, Tuvok, assemble teams.  I want a deck by deck, room by room search. Wake the crew up if you have to.  Note anything out of the ordinary.  Every person on this ship is to thoroughly search their own quarters and report back.  We’re going to do this every twelve hours until B’Elanna is finished with the sensor upgrades.”

“Yes, Captain,” he and Tuvok reply in unison. 

“In the meanwhile, I want to go to yellow alert.  With that crumpled bulkhead and the medical cot in the mess hall, I’m becoming more and more convinced that ‘future us’ is headed for trouble and I intend to be ready.  Temporal Prime Directive be damned, I won’t become a sitting duck.”

“We’re going to stay on yellow alert for the next three months?” the pilot asks, incredulous.  “I just figured we’d wait for Tuvok to stub his toe and then start counting.”

The stoic Tuvok appears unamused.  But the captain, she puts on the first smile Sir has seen in days, and it brightens his entire outlook. 

“We’ll certainly be monitoring Tuvok’s toes for any sign of trauma,” the captain says. “But until we know more, we will remain at yellow alert for as long as it takes, Mr. Paris.  As long as it takes.”


	5. Days 9 - 11

* * *

**Day 9**

Naomi Wildman  
Subject: Temporal Prime Directive  
For: Commander Chakotay

The Temporal Prime Directive (TPD) is a fundamental Starfleet principle which states that in the event of time travel, the timeline must be kept the same, no matter what.  The TPD was added as a subsection of the Prime Directive in 2267 after the crew of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_ was accidentally taken to the distant past (1930).

All Starfleet personnel (or those who are travelling as guests on a Starfleet ship) are strictly forbidden from interfering with historical events and are required to maintain the timeline.  The past must not be altered.

If one historic event is changed, then our present and future could be made different, which might be bad for the people living in the present.  The TPD also prevents Starfleet officers from telling too much about the future, should they find out what’s going to happen.

Finally, the TPD forbids Starfleet officers to go in search of methods of time travel or acquire this technology from other races.

Here are two examples of what not to do if you time travel.

Example #1:  If I travel to the future and I see that I have failed my next cell biology exam, I should not study extra hard for it when I get back to the present.  Because, if I pass my exam when I should have failed it, it might lead to something else happening.  Like, I get to have extra ice cream for dessert and then I get a stomach ache.  Which is bad.

Example #2:  If I travel to the past and find a flower that’s really pretty, I should not pick it.  Because if that flower wasn’t supposed to be picked in the past and I kill it, then other flowers might not grow, the bees in that field might not find enough nectar and then the beekeeper won’t have enough honey to fills his jars.  Which is bad.

**Even though the TPD talks about people moving around in time, it does not cover when objects are being sent to people from another time.  According to Seven of Nine, changing a command decision because of information received from the future is in violation of the TPD.  She says this is an example of ‘intent of the law,’ where the term ‘intent’ is defined as a ‘decision to bring about a prohibited consequence regardless of the manner.”  In Latin it is called a _‘mens rea_ ,’ (but I’m not sure why Seven wanted me to write that down.)

The end.

_**Indicates the section you specifically asked me to add to the report, Commander Chakotay.  And I got it back to you the same day so I get the extra credit you promised, right?_

* * *

**Day 10**

Sir stands before the door to her quarters precisely at 1900 hours, bottle of wine in hand.  And he’s decided that he won’t take no for an answer.

With the first chime, he is confident.  He stands straight and proud.  He remembers dinners past, laughter and conversation.  This night will be like those were, he’s sure it can be.

With the second chime, his posture loosens.  He considers that she might not have heard him, perhaps she’s in the shower, or she might be resting.  He feels slightly guilty for intruding.

His confidence is slowly slipping away.

After the third chime he begins to worry.  He checks the computer again; she is indeed inside and active.  He wonders if she is ignoring him.  

He glances down the hallway then to the bottle in his hand.  He is just about to step away when the door slides open, admitting him into the room, complete with a full view of stars beyond her viewport. 

“Kathryn?” he asks, stepping inside.  His eye is drawn toward artificial light, coming from above the dining table.  Unlit candles and an empty vase adorn the top.  The setting reminds him of easier times.

“I’m in here, Chakotay.”  Her voice comes from a room to the left.  “I’ll be out in a minute.  I was just, uh, taking a bath.”

A memory, one he suppresses in an instant, flashes through his mind in hues of blue.

“I’m sorry.  I should have called ahead.”  He considers leaving, shifts his feet.

“It’s okay, just… hang on.”

Sir stands frozen, then remembers his resolve.  He sets the bottle on the table, grabs two goblets and pops the cork.  As he’s pouring, she comes out, dressed in pajama pants and a V-necked sweatshirt, starlight reflecting off of her damp hair.  He almost overfills the glass.

“What are you doing here, Chakotay?”  Her voice is quiet and unsure.

“I thought we could have dinner together,” he says, reverting to the speech he had prepared.  “It’s been a while.  With all that’s been going on, I thought it might be nice to put work aside and just enjoy a meal.”

She sighs and it deflates her.  “That’s very nice of you, but I was planning on heading to bed early.  Take a raincheck?”

That she is going to bed early is the last thing he expected; he knows she rarely sleeps.  But it’s also the one thing he won’t argue about with her.  “Of course,” he says, trying his damnedest to hide the disappointment in his voice.  “Of course.”  She steps closer, the dim light illuminates her eyes, and for just an instant he swears that she looks as if she’s been crying. 

She notices his attention to her reddened cheeks, places a self-conscious hand there, then takes a step back into the shadows.  “Thank you for the wine,” she says.  “And the thought.  It was… considerate of you.”

He offers a sympathetic nod and heads back toward the door.  He’s about to leave, just about to step through with the ball in her court, when something urges him to press her.

“Tomorrow?” he asks.  “Can we do this tomorrow instead?  I miss you, Kathryn.  And I’m worried about you.”

He hears her swallow, sees her nod against starlight.  “Tomorrow.”

* * *

The tea is far too cold for his liking, but he sips it anyway.  He’s too tired to walk back to the kitchen and warm it up.  He breaks off a bit of muffin and chews, it tastes nothing like what he wanted to eat.  He’s not even sure of what he’s reading at the moment or why, all he really knows is that it’s not holding his attention.  He’s too preoccupied with Kathryn, with clues disguised as objects, with a vaguely disturbing hyper-awareness of those around him, and with a fatigue that is only getting worse by the minute.

The mess hall is dim.  All is quiet, and he prefers it this way; if he can’t sleep – and he knows he won't be able to yet – then he might as well be relaxed. 

He’s on the last tepid sip from the mug when an alarm sounds.  He sighs and taps his badge; two minutes later an engineer arrives, tricorder in hand. 

“Any idea, Sir?” the man asks, beginning to scan the room.

“Nothing stands out,” he says, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.  “Must be something that belongs here.”

It doesn’t take long for the engineer to zero in on a chair up against the wall.  “Looks like we’ve got an extra seat,” he says.  In the process of completing his scan, the tricorder swings past Sir and it beeps. 

“Something, Carey?”

“Not sure,” the man replies, scanning him up and down. “You’re coming up slightly irradiated.  Must be your proximity to the chair…unless you’re new here too,” the man jokes, returning his attention to the misplaced object. 

“Sorry to say, I’ve been here all evening,” he replies with a tired smile.

“I’ll take this out of your way,” the man says, picking up the chair.  “Enjoy the rest of your night, Sir.”

After Carey leaves, he puts the entire lot of padds into the recycler, then finally goes to bed.

* * *

**Day 11**

Morning comes around too soon, and before long Sir is back in the captain’s ready room, watching the captain draw strength from a steaming mug of coffee.  She has already confirmed that she slept long and well the night before, though the dark circles under her eyes betray her lie.

And yes, he knows that she lies, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to chastise her for it.

“Neelix asked again, and I’ve told him, we’re not going to hide any of this from the crew.  We’ve had them all searching their quarters for several days; there’s no reason that we shouldn’t be completely forthright.  Don’t you agree?”

His mind is somewhere else completely.

“Commander?”

He startles back to her.  “Yes.  I agree.  No secrets.”

She nods and sips her coffee, returning to a report.

“Such random things,” she mutters, thumbing down the padd.  “Listen to all the stuff that was found last night:  A deck of cards, a chair, a case of stembolts, a watering can, an empty hypospray, and a jump rope.”

“A jump rope?”

“In the gym.”

He shrugs.  “Nothing ominous about those.”

“Let’s just hope it’s not the calm before the storm.”

As if on cue, her communicator chirps. 

They have been summoned to the shuttle bay, and from the sound of B’Elanna’s voice, what awaits them is quite likely the storm.

* * *

“What have you got?” the captain demands even before the shuttle bay doors have closed.

“Escape pod number eighteen,” B’Elanna reports.  “It’s from deck eight, section twenty-two.  One of the inspection teams just found it.”

“Pod eighteen is between the science lab and astrometrics?” Sir asks, despite being confident he is correct.

“Yes, or it was.”  B’Elanna backs away from the craft.  “I haven’t opened the hatch yet, but I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Why is that?” asks the captain, performing a cursory exam of the outside of the craft.

B’Elanna motions with a single finger to the viewport.  Light from the shuttlebay ceiling reflects off the window, casting an unnatural red-tinge to the area behind transparent aluminum. 

The three fall silent for just a moment.  There is no way that Sir will allow either of them to be the first to see what is undoubtedly inside. 

He preemptively moves for the hatch.

“Internal power hasn’t been brought online,” B’Elanna warns him.  “You’ll have to crack it open the old-fashioned way.”

Sir grabs ahold of the release latch.  He expects to have to heave on it, to use the weight of his body and brute strength to break the seal.  This is not the case, however, and instead the door swings free easily.  He stumbles backwards.

“It’s been opened before,” the captain observes.

A stale, sickeningly-putrid stench wafts out, and he swallows hard around the lump of rising nausea mixed with dread.

He has smelled this before, in a life before the one he leads now.

B’Elanna offers him a flashlight, which he takes from her outstretched hand.  She retreats a few steps behind the captain, her arm over her nose. 

The interior is dark.  He sucks in a breath and holds it, then casts his light.  It throws shadows of red and black and silver; after a moment the images register.  A smattering of tissue and blood has dried on every surface.

The craft is otherwise empty.

He feels one of the women move close behind him.  A wave of claustrophobic anxiety assails him and retreats.  

“No bodies,” he reports, pulling his head out of the pod.  “But there’s a sizeable amount of other remains…” He doesn’t want to describe what he’s just seen, so he stops short and says simply, “Explosive decompression.”

He watches as the captain closes her eyes, then as expected, she snaps back into command form.  “Get the Doctor down here to take samples,” she orders B’Elanna.  “When he’s done, go over this thing with a fine-toothed comb. I want the logs, flight data module, sensors, everything analyzed.  Find out why it failed.  Then have a crew go over _our_ pod number eighteen.  Make sure it doesn’t have the same flaw… if it was a flaw.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She turns to him, meets his eyes.  “We need to finish our chat.”

* * *

From:  Lt. Thomas E. Paris  
To:  Adm. Owen M. Paris  
Date: September 30, 2377

Hey Dad,

I know I haven’t sent one of these in a while, sorry about that.  Please tell mom that I got her last letter and I hope she’s over her cold.  But, um… do me a favor and don’t let her read this, okay?

Things have been a little hectic lately.  The baby will be here before we know it; B’Elanna feels like she has to get everything done before then, which is impossible.  And me?  To be honest, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to be doing.

Life on the ship has been… tense.  I'm sure you'll read Captain Janeway's reports, if she files them... I hope I’m not breaking some kind of conduct by telling you what’s been going on.  Hopefully by the time this goes out, the crisis-du-jour will be over and it won’t matter.

We’ve been finding strange objects onboard and we have good reason to believe they’re from our own future.  At first it was funny, a soup and salad here, a naked picture there.  Then things turned strange.

We got a dead body, a bloodied cot, a depressurized escape pod.  Found shrapnel on the bridge.  We stumbled on a whole canister of depleted hyposprays this morning… People are starting to talk.  A lot of the crew believes we’re headed into something really bad, though we have no idea what.

I’ve been trying to isolate myself from the scuttlebutt as much as possible; senior staff can’t play into fears, you know.  And I’ve been busy running drills at the conn for the junior officers, keeping my eyes peeled for anything strange along our heading.

Tonight though, tonight it hit home.  And I’m not quite sure what to do. 

B’Elanna’s asleep.  I’ve tried, I just can’t lay there beside her.  I’m so anxious, crawling out of my skin.  I… I can’t lose her. 

You’re probably wondering what the hell I’m talking about, aren’t you? 

Okay.  I convinced B’Elanna to take a few hours off, it’s the first break she’s had in nearly two weeks.  We were watching a movie - did I tell you I have an old TV set like the one Gram had?  Well, we were in the middle ‘Revenge of the Body Snatchers,’ I thought B’Elanna would get a kick out of it considering…

And then, it just appeared.  Out of nowhere, _it_ just popped onto our coffee table, right next to the bowl of popcorn. 

A perfectly folded Federation funeral flag.

B’Elanna went for a tricorder, but I just kept right on staring. That cobalt blue is burned into my mind now, everywhere I look, cobalt blue.

Once she got her readings, she checked the nametag on the binding.  I didn’t need to.  I knew what it was going to say.

B’Elanna shrugged it off, said the future isn’t set and for all we know, the changes we’ve made have already rendered this moot.  I told her she was probably right, but… there’s an unspoken thing between us now.  She’ll never admit she could be wrong, and I don’t want her to see that I’m not so optimistic.

Maybe we’ll be fine.  We’ve certainly cheated death before.  Still I can’t shake the knowledge that somewhere, sometime, there is a version of me living without her.  Maybe without both of them.  And I... I know you might see this as a sign of weakness, but I’ve tried to be honest with you in these letters. 

I’m scared, Dad. 

I’m so very scared.

-Tom

* * *

Addendum to Daily Log  
Seven of Nine  
Stardate: 54746.5

This evening, at 2158 hours, just before the beginning of my regeneration cycle, I witnessed the emergence of a temporally displaced object.  I had backed into my alcove and was facing the spot when it materialized.  My view was unobstructed.

A standard-issue cargo container appeared approximately 5.5 meters above the floor where it remained suspended in space for 0.15 seconds before falling to the ground. 

I silenced the alarm and recorded chroniton radiation readings immediately but did not detect the presence of additional anomalies in the cargo bay.

A label on the front of the container identifies it as:  SK-859-102 – 2 of 2.

The lid of the bin had detached upon impact with the deck below.  I proceeded to investigate the contents, which were as follows:

  * Four sets of folded civilian clothing
  * One standard-issue, yellow, Starfleet uniform and men’s boots
  * Fifteen photographs of individuals I could not readily identify, some in frames
  * Parrises Squares trophy – 1st place All-Federation Group B
  * Brown leather case containing a B-flat clarinet



I checked the computer database for the personnel number on the side of the container; it is consistent with the items inside.

Given the evidence, I would conclude that in the reality this container originated from, Harry Kim has either put his belongings into storage, or has been declared dead.


	6. Days 12 - 15

* * *

**Day 12**

It is five minutes before the start of alpha shift when the captain steps into Sir’s office. 

“Add Harry to the list,” she says, dropping onto his couch.  She digs a thumb into her temple. 

His cup of coffee, barely sipped, makes a sharp sound when he sets it on the table.  “I know.”

“How do you know?  I just came from speaking with Seven…”

“Word travels fast,” he says, matter-of-factly.  “Why do you think the bin was up so high?”

“Seven believes it was on top of a stack.”

He thinks for a moment, pictures the scene in his mind.  “If that bin was up five meters…”

“Then there were probably a lot more underneath and around it, yes.  I know and I’m trying _not_ to dwell on that detail.”

“I gather you heard about B’Elanna, too?”

“Not B’Ela–” She clasps a hand over her mouth.  He simply nods.

“Her baby, Chakotay…”  Her words are a plea and a question over which he has no control and to which he has no answers.

“That’s three senior officers now, provided we’re being optimistic about Seven,” he says, trying to move on to the facts.  “And potentially three other junior officers, but I’m still not convinced that we didn’t just bunk up some of the lower decks crewmen…”

She comes back to the present slowly.  “The reigning theory is that Chell, Nozawa, and Murphy were each given their own quarters when the previous occupants died.  And then there’s –”

“The escape pod.”  The words are dreadfully heavy on his tongue.  He has tried so hard to forget that image of flesh and blood, dried red and black, soaked into upholstery, spread across consoles…

“The Doctor’s preliminary report came in just a few minutes ago.” She shifts in her seat.  “He’s convinced there were at least four casualties: Hickman, Dorado, and Jarvis for certain… But he’s not entirely sure if it was Megan or Jenny or both.  Apparently, it’s hard to tell with identical twins.”

He swallows around the lump in his throat and balls his fists. “What the hell are we up against here, Kathryn?”

Rising from the couch, she begins to pace the small office.  “I wish I knew.  This… this constant waiting for things to appear.  It’s like torture.  I don’t know what’s going to show up next, a book or a body.”

Watching her pains him.  Her anguish and frustration bubble just beneath the surface of her forced-calm exterior.  It is a primal need within him to try to calm her, and the only way he knows how to do that is to give her some kind of control over their situation.

“How is B’Elanna coming with the sensor upgrades?”

“Progressing.  They’ve finished the most sensitive areas and a few public ones,” she says, then she counts on her fingers.  “All of deck one, engineering, the central computer core, deflector assembly and the torpedo room.  The mess, holodecks, cargo bays…  But B’Elanna admitted there are sensor dark zones.  And she’s convinced me, for the moment, that it’s not worth the effort to retrofit all of the halls and crew quarters.”  She wags her finger at him.  “I might fight her on that later…”

“It’s a solid start.”

“Right now, I’m more concerned about _what_ we’re gifted next,” she says, wringing her fingers together while she walks. “What if we get a part of an unexploded warhead, or an armed intruder?  Or worse?  What if we suddenly gain another warp core?”

“Do you really think physics would try to jam one core on top of another?”

She stops.  “On this ship, anything’s possible.”

“Okay then, we have to find out what’s causing this and put a stop to it.  Maybe we can modify the shields to -”

“To cut off all clues as to what’s going to happen in our disastrous future?  I think I’d rather take my chances with what comes through.”

“For all intents and purposes, we shouldn’t be paying attention to this stuff in the first place,” he reminds.  “Tuvok was right, acting differently than you would otherwise is in violation of the Temporal Prime Directive.”

“I’ll gladly answer to Starfleet if it means that Tuvok isn’t murdered, four of our science crew aren’t blown to pieces, Harry, B’Elanna and…” She shakes her head but won’t finish the thought. 

Instead she moves to sit beside him and they are quiet together for an extended moment.  He is grateful for the silence, tries to think of anything except the loved ones they may lose.  When she closes her eyes and releases a heavy breath, he places a hand on her thigh. 

“Do you really think we’re headed for their fate?” she asks, hushed.

“I think we’re headed for _our_ fate.  And I think our fate is never set in stone.  I think we will continue to make the best decisions we can for our crew and our ship, no matter what, and we will prevail as we always have.”

She appears to calm at his words, and he feels just a little more optimistic knowing he can still have this kind of impact.  Still though, he wonders if what he said is true.  Is there hope or is their demise a foregone conclusion?  Will he – will they – be fast enough, wise enough, to save the ill-fated among them?

The air between them cools with her next breath.

“You know what I think?” she asks, the last vestiges of optimism turning to sorrow.  “I think, unless we can make some sense of what’s going on here, and soon, our best decisions are not going to be good enough.”

* * *

Captain’s Log  
Stardate: 54752.4

Long-range sensors have detected a class three nebula along our present course.  At current speed, we will reach its edge in just under eighteen hours.  Due to increased particle flux within the nebula, our sensor range and accuracy will be greatly diminished.  Seven of Nine estimates that once we enter, we will not be able to scan beyond a distance of 75 kilometers.

I was prepared to take _Voyager_ through.  Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t hesitate, as this is an excellent opportunity to study the phenomena.  However, after speaking at length with Commander Chakotay, we’ve – I’ve – decided to divert around the nebula.  It might not be the most practical decision, but Chakotay assures me that the crew will feel more at ease in open space, where we have full use of external sensors. 

This detour will add six days to our journey. 

It should be noted that Seven disagrees with the decision.  She feels I am acting with an overabundance of caution and in an inefficient manner with regards to our goal of reaching Earth as quickly as possible. 

Consider her objection so noted.

This brings me to another issue that I have been avoiding.  By the absolute strictest interpretation of the Temporal Prime Directive, I should not be considering any of the evidence that has been finding its way onto _Voyager_ in my decision-making process _._   Some may argue that I have been in violation of the Directive from the moment I went to yellow alert. 

However, until I have been given irrefutable proof that someone from our future is purposefully sending us a message in order to change the course of their own fate, I will continue to examine and investigate what is going on here.  At some point, the objects themselves may prove to be a danger to us.  And, timeline be damned, I will do whatever it takes to protect this ship and my crew, regardless of the changes to an unknown timeline.

Out here, alone and beyond the ability to ask for orders, I have to do whatever it takes to get us home.  All of us.

* * *

**Day 13**

Throughout the meeting, and despite an incessant pounding between his ears, Sir’s thoughts never wander far from the captain.  She hasn’t moved from her position by the viewport; he thinks she looks as if she longs to step through and disappear into the inky night.

B’Elanna delivers a brief and quietly reserved report, announcing that after extensive investigation, there was no data to be found in the escape pod’s computer.  Her team has concluded the pod’s systems were never brought online before it was jettisoned and therefore recorded nothing.  Furthermore, there were no discernible flaws or damage that should have caused the explosive decompression which clearly occurred inside.  When she is through, there are no questions.  The pilot puts his hand on hers, and they join the others in an uneasy silence.

The Doctor is next.  He informs them it was Megan Delaney who met an untimely fate, not her sister.

Sir feels the weight of unspoken things and is well aware that the captain appears to be light-years away.  He worries more about her than he does about himself, or the ship and crew. His concern for her is an anchor to which he is always tethered, and most certainly a weakness of which he is well aware.

The captain taps her badge, startling most of the attendees.  “Janeway to Lieutenant Ayala.”

_“Ayala here.”_

“Have your teams reported back from the evening search?”

_“Yes, Captain.  We were just logging the newest items now.”_

“Please bring what you’ve found to the senior briefing room.”

Silence bleeds on as they wait and he, too, finds himself staring out the viewport wondering which one of these stars will bring about disaster.  His thoughts then wander to B’Elanna, Paris, and their unborn child.  Kim and his box of spilled effects.  Then Tuvok, cold and beaten lifeless on the morgue table.  But he won’t think about how those four people felt when the escape pod blew.  About how they would have been cold for just an instant. Terrified and helpless. How every object that wasn’t battened down would have become a weapon, shredding, slicing…  He won’t think about it…  He won’t…

When the doors hiss open, he jumps.

The broad one, Ayala, is carrying large, black box. 

“Tell us what you’ve got, Lieutenant,” the captain orders, motioning to the table.  The container is placed there with a dull thud. 

“We found a phaser rifle in a Jefferies tube about ten meters from main engineering,” Ayala reports, clunking down the weapon.  Sir’s attention immediately trains on a scorched mark along the silver barrel.  “The power cell has been half-emptied, and it looks like it was hit by returned fire.”

“I’ll thank you not to speculate, Lieutenant,” the captain says.

“Apologies, Ma’am.”

The next item out of the box makes a ringing sound as it contacts the table top.  “Neelix found a soup ladle, identical to the one he was already using to serve dinner, under a chair in the mess.  And we recovered a sleeping bag in the holo-lab.”  With a grunt, Ayala extracts a puffed-up roll of bedding and whumps it onto the table, narrowly missing Kim’s coffee.

“Was that all?” the captain questions.

“Oh, uh…  There was one more thing.”  Ayala opens his uniform jacket, feels around inside the breast pocket, and retrieves an object which he holds clasped in a closed fist.  He steps towards the captain but is sure to catch Sir’s eye before handing over the item.

“Hickman found this in the brig.  Inside cell two.  It was clear under the bed,” Ayala explains, his voice low.  “In all honesty, Ma’am, we may have overlooked it before, it could have been there a while.”

The captain takes a private glance at the thing in her hand and then drops her fist to her side.  Whatever it is, she doesn’t want the others to know, and the look she shoots to Ayala will certainly buy his silence.  Sir understands, however.  In his gut he feels the weight of that small object as surely as it hangs on his collar now.  He is suddenly, excruciatingly consumed by an inexplicable feeling of guilt.

Ayala is dismissed; the objects remain.

“Does anyone else have anything to report?”

Tuvok clears his throat.  “I do,” he states.  “This afternoon, at 1655 hours, I completed my daily meditations and walked, unshod, in dimmed light, from my living space to the bedroom.  On the way, I misjudged my steps and my foot impacted the base of my dresser.”

A snort echoes in the room.  Sir’s attention flies to the source.  “Something funny, Mr. Paris?” he snaps.

“No, Sir.  Nothing at all.”

The Doctor picks up with the report. “Mr. Tuvok has fractured the distal phalanx of his left big toe.  The injury is consistent with the one sustained by the corpse we were… gifted.”

Sir’s attention goes back to the captain.  Her face betrays no expression.

“Two weeks you said, right?” Paris asks the Doctor; his tone is now quite serious.

“Approximately.”

B’Elanna shifts in her seat.  “So, this is the first true evidence we’ve had that we’re following along the same path as future us _.”_  

“And the phaser rifle is the first evidence which presents the real possibility of armed conflict,” Tuvok adds.

“You mean you think we’ll be boarded?”  Paris asks.

“I, um...” 

Sir’s attention, along with the others, diverts to young Ensign Kim.  He is not moving, staring straight ahead, all color drained from his face. 

“I have something else to report. It uhm… corroborates that, uh, being boarded… thing.”

“Go ahead, Ensign,” the captain presses.

“I just kicked something under the table…” Kim’s eyes stay fixed straight ahead, posture stiff, as if he is afraid to move.

Sir pushes back slowly from the table, as do the others, and peers underneath.

“I’m pretty sure _he_ wasn’t here a minute ago.”

* * *

**Day 14**

Crewman Olandra Jor  
Personal Log  
Stardate: 54755.6

They found a bomb on the bridge today.

It was just sitting there, right under the helm station.

Mikey kicked it with his big foot an instant before the sensors went off.  A bloody miracle he didn’t blow himself to kingdom come.  I hear he turned white as a sheet.

Wasn’t more than an hour before all of us Maquis were herded into the mess hall – cause that thing certainly didn’t come from a ‘fleeter.  It was a nice-looking bomb, I’ll say that.  Aluminum casing, about 30ccs of trilithium resin, a kinetic detonator rigged to a combadge.

Bendera used to call them hodge-bombs because they were hodge-podged together with a little explosive, a little luck, and a whole lot of desperation.  He’s the only one I ever knew who made them with any great success.  Everyone else knew, too.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard the thirty-four of us ex-Maquis be so silent in one place as when that pipe was being passed around.  Felt like we were holding his ghost.

It was the wiring harness that gave it away.  For all the instruction Kurt gave me on arming those damn things, I never could get the loop quite right.  I didn’t get it right on this one either.  Or, I won’t get it right...  Whatever. 

The others seemed shocked when I told them I made that bomb.  I guess it’s been so long that everyone else forgot that bloody Sunday we spent on Felton Prime, Kurt and I huddled in that cave with a fucking lantern and our horde of supplies.  I braided wiring harnesses until my thumbs were bleeding.  And then we blew some Cardies the hell up.

At least then we knew who the enemy was.

Jad says I should be happy to know that at least I survive whatever is about to befall _Voyager_.  I’m not so sure surviving is a good thing anymore. 

Jad says being alive is always preferable to being dead.  And he’s worried because he has yet to find anything in his quarters.  Says it’s evidence that all his belongings have been boxed up for his next of kin.

I laughed him off, told him that when he kicks it, I’m spacing his god-awful wardrobe and his half-finished puzzles and keeping his books and his chocolate stash for myself.  He turned really serious, then he told me that he still loved me.

And I thought the bomb was a surprise. 

I honestly believed that after we broke up those feelings were behind me.  Maybe it’s the stress, or the loneliness, or the fact that I’ll be building artillery again before long… I don’t know.  But after the shock wore off, I almost said it back.

Almost.

Tomorrow, I might.  He’s asked me out on a date.  A real date.  Like the ones we used to go on.  Says he’ll take care of everything, I just need to wear my best dress. 

Why am I having trouble recalling the reason we broke up?  It’ll probably come rushing back to me when he slurps his soup at dinner.  But until then I’m just going to remember what my grandmother used to say: It’s never a bad thing when someone tells you they love you.

And now, I’m going to dig out my best dress – my only dress.  Then I’m going to use my rations to replicate some wire, a meter of aluminum tubing, and a roll of tape, because I also remember what my grandfather used to say. 

Those who fight and run away, live to fight another day.

* * *

The mess hall has become Sir’s after-hours home.  He feels oddly more comfortable here, with a full view of the stars, than in his own quarters. 

In the dimness of ship’s night, with padds and empty mugs scattered across the table, he is so immersed in reading that he doesn’t hear someone approaching.  When it finally registers that he has company, he nearly jumps out of his seat.

“I’m sorry,” the captain says, taking a step back.  “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s… oh,” he exhales.  “It’s okay, Captain… Kathryn.  Really, I was just, I wasn’t expecting you, anyone...”  He clamors to collect the padds strewn about, flipping them upside down in a stack, then he slides his dirty dishes aside.

“Is there a problem?  Something you need?” he asks, more collected.

“No, I just wanted to stretch my legs, maybe find some coffee.  I didn’t realize you’d still be up.”

“I guess neither of us is sleeping much these days.”

“I guess not.” 

She bites her lip and shakes her head, taking the seat opposite him, but silence reigns until she clears her throat.

“You didn’t come back for dinner,” she says softly.

His eyes dart as he tries to recall.  How many nights – days – has it been since he was at her door, wine bottle in hand.

“A lot has happened since then. I’ve been – we’ve both been – preoccupied,” he says.  “And the truth is, I wasn’t sure you wanted me to.”

She nods.  “I know.  I wasn’t sure I wanted you to either, until you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Kathryn.  It was rude of me.”

“I could have made more of an effort,” she admits.

Something passes between them, unsaid, uncomfortable, and painful, too.

“Can I get you something now?” he asks, eager to make things right.  “Maybe we could spend some time – “

Sir’s train of thought is shattered when the floor quakes underneath them.

Panic flares in her eyes, still locked with his.

“Janeway to the bridge,” she says, voice steady.  He fights the urge to flee the room and run for deck one, instead intent on following her lead.  He remains calm.

 _“We have run into a cluster of gravimetric eddies,”_ comes Tuvok’s voice.

The ship quakes again.

_“Lieutenant Markson is navigating around them with marginal success.  They pose no serious threat at this time, and we expect to emerge from the region in the next sixty seconds.”_

“Understood,” she says, closing the channel.

“See, nothing to worry about,” she reassures.  He sees that her knuckles are turning white as the ship shakes again.

“Do you want to go to the bridge?” he asks.

“I’ve never wanted to be anywhere more in my life.”

They bolt for the doors, leaving his stack of padds behind.

* * *

**Day 15**

The young woman is visibly shaking as she walks into his office. 

“I don’t keep the vase on a shelf…” she says, but the sound of the door hissing closed drowns out her whisper.  He asks her to repeat herself.

“I don’t keep the vase on a shelf.  I keep it on the coffee table, which is on top of a really soft rug.  It’s… that’s why I was confused when I found the pieces.” She doesn’t take the seat he waves her towards, instead she continues to tell her story standing before him.  “I couldn’t figure out how the vase would be broken when it’s sitting on a low table on top of that fuzzy rug.  I thought maybe someone broke in and smashed it, or that my roommate got angry and threw it across the room, not that she gets angry.  I mean, we all get angry, she doesn’t destroy my stuff or anything, don’t get the wrong idea… I was just trying to figure out –”

“Tal,” Sir says gently to pause her rambling.  “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

She nods and flips the padd in her hands over and over.  “Have a seat on the couch,” he says.  “I’ll just be a minute.”  He closes what he had been reading on his computer, then orders the tea.

“Now,” he says.  Her hands are still trembling as she takes the steaming mug.  “Tell me, slowly.  Start at the beginning.”

She inhales a steadying breath and begins again.  “A week ago, I found a box in the back of my closet with the broken pieces of a vase.  I turned the shards over to the search crew, but it bugged me how busted up that vase was. We’ve hit a lot of turbulence in the last seven years and it’s survived so far.  Plus, it’s on the low table, which is – “

“On a soft rug.”

“It’s _so_ soft.  Billy gave it to me as a birthday present because I like to sit on the floor to meditate...”

“That was very thoughtful of him.”

She gives him a small smile, and he thinks that she looks very pretty when she does so.

“Go on?”

“Two days ago, Billy said that he wanted to do something to take his mind off of all the craziness.  So, he and his roommate, and me and my roommate, decided to get together for a night of poker,” she glances up from her tea and immediately looks uncomfortable.  “Not that we were betting or anything, I mean, I know gambling isn’t allowed and – “

“It’s fine,” he says, amused.  “Please, continue.”

“We used that table for our game.  Which is something we have literally never done before.  Our quarters are really small, so we usually go to the mess hall, but it was – “

“Closed for training.”

She nods.  “Max, Billy’s roommate, put my vase way up high on the top of our bookshelf.  Leslie is a packrat and she reads like a fool.  The other shelves are so crammed with junk there wasn’t anywhere else to put it.  I completely forgot about the vase.  Like, totally, just…forgot,” she meets his eyes.  “You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

“The vase stayed there until we hit that bump in the road last night?” he guesses.

“Yup.  Then, bam.  All over the _hard_ floor.”

“I see.”

“I got home from my shift an hour ago and took the pieces straight to Seven.  She didn’t have time to compare them, but she told me I could get the old… er, future… shards from storage.  Have a look.”

She hands him the padd she came with and he flips through a dozen-odd photographs. 

“The pieces are identical,” he observes, tugging at his ear.  “Both vases broke in exactly the same way.”

“This is bad, right?  I mean, it’s really bad.  I’m not super great with probability and temporal mechanics, but it’s hard to miss that this means we’re on the same path as the Ship of the Damned.”

He raises his eyebrow.  “The _Ship of the Damned_?”

“That’s uh… that’s what people are calling it.  You didn’t know?”

“No,” he sets his jaw.  “And I don’t agree that this has to mean what you think.”

“How could it not?” she asks.  “I know this is above my pay grade, but we purposefully detoured around that nebula.  I remember Seven talking about how it would add a week to our journey and she thought it was ‘inefficient and a decision based on unnecessary abundance of caution,’” she parrots in an impression that makes him smile.

“We did detour the nebula, yes,” he agrees.  “And the turbulence was the result of a region of space we wouldn’t have encountered otherwise.  But, you said yourself, we’ve had a lot of bumps in the road the last seven years.  The vase would have fallen from that precarious spot regardless of what we hit, or how hard.”

“But why was it up there in the first place?  Remedial hand-to-hand combat training in the mess isn’t a usual thing either,” she argues.  He waits patiently while she shakes her head and mutters, “I knew I shouldn’t have let Max move that vase.”

“Tal,” he says, placing a hand on her knee.  “I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.  None of us know what is going to happen.  But I do know that putting a vase on a shelf isn’t going to change the future.  This is just another piece of the puzzle.  It’s an oddity, for sure.  But it should not be viewed as a predictor of doom.”

“You’re sure?” she asks. 

“I’m sure.”  He smiles at her and she relaxes. 

“Okay...” she considers.  And then she’s more resolute.  “Okay.  You’re right.”

“Are you headed to bed now?”

“Um, well.  Normally yes, soon.  Though I’m not sure how I’m going to sleep.”

“Why don’t you take your next shift off, that way you can do something else to calm down a bit and sleep later.  If Seven doesn’t need you for something pressing tonight, that is.”

“I’m, no.  I’m not busy.  It’s dead down there… I mean,” she bites her lip.  “It’s been very quiet, especially during gamma.”

“I’ll tell Seven I gave you a pass.  Read a book, or go exercise, or play cards.  Whatever will help you relax.”

She stands and he takes the mug from her hands.  “Thank you, Sir.  For the tea, and just… everything.”

Once she is gone, he digs two fingers into the back of his head, then picks up the padd she has left behind.  “She’s right,” he mutters out loud, scrolling through the pictures.  “Ship of the Damned…”

But even worse, he realizes, is that he has to tell the captain.

* * *

Sir’s headache has gotten so bad over the last few days that he cannot take it anymore.  And so, before approaching the captain about the broken vase, he turns toward sickbay with the singular purpose of acquiring an analgesic. 

He has a rising sense of dread as he walks, the feeling intensifies the closer he gets.  Anxiety begins to grip at him, tightening his throat, stuttering his steps.  It is a completely irrational feeling and yet he cannot shake it.

 _This will be quick,_ he tells himself.  _No need for a full exam, just grab a hypo and be done._

The doors swish open.

“Ah, Commander,” says the Doctor.  “Right on time.”

He comes to a halt just inside the bay.  “Oh?”

“I’ve just finished up the full autopsy on our alien friend.  I assume you’re here for the report?”

“Report?  Yes,” he says, though he’s quite sure that wasn’t the only reason he’s come.  Truth be told he’d nearly forgotten about the body Harry had kicked under the table over a day ago.  The panicky feeling begins to dissipate.

“Cause of death was asphyxiation.  Accute neurazine poisoning.  I’d have had the results sooner, but it took a while to isolate the –”

“Someone gassed the briefing room?” he interrupts, following the Doctor to his office.

“That would be my guess.  Or, he was killed somewhere else and moved.  Without a crime scene, it’s hard to say.”  The Doctor takes a seat behind his desk.  “Seven recognizes his species as 7561, the Nintali.   She says they’re a peaceful race, originating less than twenty light years from here.  But here’s the really interesting part…”

A computer screen is swung around for Sir to see.  “Imbedded in the brainstem of this individual is another organism.”

This news doesn’t surprise him.  It should surprise him, he knows, but it does not.  “What kind of organism?”

“It’s small, roughly four centimeters in diameter and weighs thirty-two grams.  The cellular structure is consistent with those observed in metamorphous species.  A fascinating specimen...”

“It’s a changeling?”

“Not exactly.  A shapeshifter of sorts, yes.  But I believe it would only be able to morph within the confines of its original volume.  It is highly unlikely that it can regulate its density.  It might use this ability to adapt itself to the biology of the host, or possibly to enter the host in the first place.”

“So, it’s a parasite?”

“It’s impossible for me to say without having a living individual to examine.  But given what we know of these kinds of relationships in nature, I’d equate this more to a Trill-Symbiont relationship.  Where both have some control in the overall functioning and thought processes of the greater being.”

“Interesting.”

“It is also emitting chroniton radiation.  There is a possibility that this organism has a tie to the temporal incursions we’ve been seeing.  I intend to discuss this with Seven further.  I’m hopeful that she has access to other information about this species,” the Doctor says, turning the screen back. 

“No!” Sir practically shouts, startling himself.  “I mean, no.  Please.  Let’s keep this information confidential.”

“The patient is deceased, Commander.  Doctor-patient confidentiality is a moot point.”

“This is more about unnecessarily worrying the crew than patient rights,” he explains.  “The captain has already agreed that the presence of this intruder was to be kept quiet.  I’d like to keep chatter to a minimum.”

The Doctor’s demeanor sours, his holographic brow furrows.  “The _captain_ previously indicated that we would have complete transparency with regards to the crew.  Has she rescinded that?  And furthermore, I don’t see how discussing this matter with Seven, who already knows of his existence – “

“I said…” Sir repeats, rising slightly to lean into the hologram’s personal space, “that until further notice, we will keep this private.  Is that clear?”

After a fleeting stare-down, the Doctor dips his chin.

“Now,” Sir continues, “Place the body into stasis and await further instructions from me.” 

“Or Captain Janeway?” the Doctor inquires, a curious tone to his voice.

“Yes… or Captain Janeway.”  He takes the padd from the table and taps it on his palm.  “I’ll deliver this.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Doctor replies, his gaze narrow.  “Was there anything else you needed, Sir?”

“No.  I’ve got everything I came for.”

Then he exits sickbay, report in hand and with his head still pounding.

* * *

Sir’s legs are restless.  He’s been sitting useless for too long on the bridge.  He needs to move, so he recalls Tuvok and takes up the end of the mid-evening security rounds.

He hopes to relieve some tension; perhaps gain some kind of perspective by walking the halls he’s become so familiar with over the years.  But instead he’s met with only worried faces, anxious people, people grieving losses they haven’t even suffered yet.

People on edge, almost dangerously so.

He sees right into their very souls these days, the comrades he thought he knew well.  Feels that he can understand what motivates and frightens them like he never has before. The sixth sense is unnerving.

He passes Crewman Bordain in the turbolift and has an unexpected sadness for the taste of homemade apple pie.  Crewman Jor nods with a smile just past the ‘fresher on deck six, and he is immediately caught up in the feeling of falling in love.  Ensign Bronowski outside the airponics bay smiles, but Sir’s chest suddenly aches for a hug from a child he cannot name. 

Once Bronowski is out of sight, Sir stops and supports himself with a hand against the wall.  He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a calming breath. 

“Excuse me, Commander?”

Sir groans silently at the voice, which grates at his ears, then he picks up walking again as the visitor sidles up next to him.

“What is it Neelix?  I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Well, I’ll walk with you then.  I’ve got a little mystery I was hoping you could help me with.”

“Find another soup ladle?”  Sir picks up pace towards the turbolift with the cook beside him.

“No, no, nothing like that.  Actually, it was a stack of padds.  A rather large stack, ten in all.  I found them when I opened the kitchen this morning.”  They stop in front of the lift, and Sir is anxious for it to arrive.  He taps the toes in his boot.

“Nothing unusual about someone reading in the mess.  I was there doing the same just last night, and probably will again in a few hours.” 

“Yes, but, I wanted to try to return them to their owners, so I looked through.  That’s when I realized they’re… well, they’re a lot of things, actually.  Ships systems reports, officer’s logs, a few science articles and publicly available records.  But then some are personal logs, letters to family, even private medical histories.  I didn’t read them, of course, not in any detail.”  Neelix’s voice grows soft.  “But I saw enough to know that the data on those padds belongs to over fifty different members of the crew.”

Sir swings his head, narrows his vision. “What are you getting at?”

The ‘lift opens, admitting them both.  “Well, uh, well Commander, I think that someone has been snooping.  No one, not even the captain, should have access to all of those files, and yet, there they were.”

“Maybe they’re from the future ship,” he suggests, then looks to the ceiling, “Deck nine.”

“Ah,” the cook’s smile widens.  “The incursion alarm hasn’t alerted in there in days, and I checked them over with a tricorder, there was no trace of chroniton radiation.  That’s why I did some more digging.”

Sir’s jaw clenches of its own accord.  “What kind of digging?”

“The last two people in the mess yesterday were you and Captain Janeway.  That’s why I’m here to ask, did you see anything strange?”

“Neelix, did you tell anyone else about this?”

“No, no.  You’re the first person I’ve come to.  But it is concerning, isn’t it?  Such a blatant breach of trust.”

“And where are the padds now?”

“They’re in the kitchen.  On the counter, next to my stock pots.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Sir’s lips.  “You did well,” he says, slapping Neelix hard on the back.  His hand rests there, just between the cook’s shoulder blades.  “I’ll be sure to have Mr. Tuvok look into this further.  We certainly don’t want an invasion of privacy in addition to everything else, now do we?”

“No, Sir.  We certainly do not.”

“And for that reason, I’d say there’s no need to speak of this to anyone else…” Sir says with just enough force behind the words to impart a threat.

“Of course not,” Neelix agrees.  “No need to add to the crew’s stress.”

His hand slides from the cook’s back.  “Speaking of stress, you’re looking a bit tired, Neelix.  Heading to bed soon?”

“I’m on my way there now,” he says, then with a questioning look, “And I’ll sleep better knowing you’re going to look into the matter we just discussed?”

“As well you should.”  The lift halts and Sir steps out, then looks back as the doors begin to close.  “I’m very glad you came to me, Neelix.  Very glad indeed.”


	7. Days 16 - 18

* * *

**Day 16**

“There’s really not much else to report…”

“Not much else to report, or _nothing_ else to report?” the captain snaps at Kim.  Her sharp tone rouses Sir from his distracted state.  He glances at her, finds her lips pursed and her fists clenched on the tabletop.

“Nothing else to report, Ma’am,” Kim confirms, blushing slightly.

“Next?”

B’Elanna leans forward in her seat.  “Just before gamma shift change last night, we found a tricorder on the upper deck of main engineering,” she says, fiddling with the suspect device in her hands.  She pauses, looks to the captain for direction.

“Are you prepared to share those findings now, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, I am.  I just wanted to be sure you didn’t want to hear them in private first.”

“We have no secrets here.”  She waves the engineer on.  Sir is taken aback at how impatient the captain has grown.  This is her wall, he thinks.  She’s finally put up shields against the unending onslaught of devastating news.

“Okay,” B’Elanna begins.  “We checked the serial number, located the matching tricorder, and analyzed the data...” Slowly, almost painfully so, the engineer rises from her chair.  Sir worries again that his friend has not been getting adequate rest.  She winces and Paris, to her right, jumps reflexively, but she ignores him and proceeds to the computer panel on the wall.

“As you can see, the last twelve batches of data remained in the memory buffer.  The first five entries are gel pack viability analyses, the timing and results of three of those readings match with our version of the tricorder.”

“When was the last scan performed?” the captain asks.

“The last matching reading was taken three days ago.  I’d expect the fourth reading will be taken tomorrow, and the fifth in five more days past that.”

“Who normally performs these analyses?”

“Ensign Vorik.  This tricorder is from his toolbox.”

Sir isn’t sure that he understands completely where this information is heading, but he listens intently, trying to stay focused.

“After the fifth reading is where things get a little… interesting,” B’Elanna continues.  “At ten days out, someone scans for life signs from behind a bulkhead.  There are twenty-four individuals identified.  Six humans, one Vulcan, and seventeen aliens.”

“Seventeen aliens?” the captain asks with a gasp; her stoicism breaking.

“Yes, and of those there appear to be at least six different species.”

“Maybe we’ll be holding negotiations,” Paris suggests with an unconvincing shrug.

“If we are, they’re not going to go very well,” B’Elanna says.  “Because two days later the tricorder is used as a comm unit and receives text orders.” 

She points to the screen where Sir reads:

18:30:45: blow charges on mark  
18:31:22: MARK

“Well, that might explain the debris,” Kim says, his voice flat.

“Indeed,” Tuvok concurs.

“Go on,” the captain prods.  She leans forward, folds her hands and does not dare look away from the screen.

“This is…” B’Elanna shifts her feet.  “This next one you’re going to have to hear.”  She taps the panel and a staticky, panting voice fills the room.

_“This is Jacobson.  I’ve been hit.  Fucking Ayala got me in the back.  I made it to Jefferies tube eleven… eleven something. Paris says to hang on.  Someone’s coming to help but I… they won’t be quick enough…  Whoever finds this, tell my family I’m sorry.  Tell them I wanted to see them again so… so badly.  Carey, Gilmore… anyone left… They used to be us, but don’t let them fool you…”_

There is a long pause and everyone remains silent.  Sir doesn’t dare breathe.  B’Elanna continues to stare at the floor.

_“Get… our ship… back.”_

“That’s it,” B’Elanna says, ending playback.  “A half-day later someone accessed and copied the recording.”

“Did he say Ayala?” Kim asks.

B’Elanna simply nods.

Sir glances to the captain.  Her jaw is set and her eyes focused straight ahead. 

“That was how many?” he asks, wanting to get the rest of this over with. “Eight?”

“That was the ninth record,” B’Elanna confirms, she taps forward to the next display.  “Record number ten is someone diagnosing power failures.  There are thirty-seven couplings damaged beyond repair and fifteen which are still operational.” 

She pages ahead. 

“Records eleven and twelve begin twenty-five hours apart, sixteen and seventeen days from now.  They begin early in the morning and are used for the better part of each day to check for structural instabilities.  Let’s just say the results aren’t good.”

“Shocker,” Tom says under his breath.  B’Elanna clicks off the display and walks back toward her husband.  He pulls out her chair and she sits down carefully.

“Does anyone have anything to say about this… information?” the captain asks.  “Tuvok?”

“There is ample data here to begin drawing a number of inferences, however I would prefer to review the material again and then speak with you in private before voicing those conclusions to the group.”

The captain nods.  “I’ve changed my mind on our little rule about secrets.  What you saw here, what you heard...” she points at each of them in turn, “doesn’t leave this room.  Understand?”

Everyone nods, but no one dares breathe a ‘yes, Ma’am.’

“Dismissed.”

* * *

Neelix  
Personal Log  
Stardate: 54760.2

It’s nearly noon and I’m still feeling rotten.  I’m queasy and hot.  Good news is at least my vision and my mind are beginning to clear a bit.  I woke up this morning in a fog as thick as Jubalian spice-pudding.

The Doctor ran some scans, said my blood-pressure is elevated and my neurotransmitter levels – whatever those are – are massively imbalanced.  He accused me of self-medicating!  Can you imagine?  I’ve never done such a thing in my life... or, well… not onboard _Voyager._ I’d never.  Of all the preposterous things to suggest.  Needless to say, I gave him a piece of my mind. 

He finally settled on the diagnosis of stress-induced fatigue. 

Stress?  Ha.  I’d believe that stress would make my head pound and my stomach ache, but can it also leave a strange taste in your mouth?  I’d swear I’ve been eating lemons.  And can stress take away a whole day from you?  Because I can’t remember anything at all from yesterday…  I’m told that I served breakfast, and lunch.  I met with Commander Chakotay about crew morale in the evening, then no one saw me again until I didn’t show up for breakfast this morning and people started to worry.  I just… went to bed, I suppose, slept right through all of my wake-up alarms.  The whole thing is very odd, and rather frightening if you ask me.

Maybe the Doctor is right.  Stress and nerves.  I’m getting too old for this.  I think I’ll just try to sleep a bit more and maybe I’ll be well enough to serve breakfast tomorrow.  Until then, Chell can continue to cover for me.

* * *

**Day 17**

Cpt. Kathryn Janeway  
Personal Log  
Stardate: 54764.1

The Doctor came to see me today.  He’s concerned for the rising number of patients complaining of stress-related symptoms.

Without going into specifics, the reported incidents of headaches, insomnia – or conversely, people falling asleep at their post – gastrointestinal distress, and other anxiety issues have risen drastically in the last two weeks.  And poor Neelix, his situation is alarming to say the least.

To be perfectly honest, the stress is beginning to get to me, too.  Tuvok approached me a week ago, and now the Doctor has seen fit to express concern for my well-being.  Both of them have hinted around the idea that I’m chronically depressed, though they wouldn’t dare say it so directly.  Quite frankly, I’m surprised that Chakotay hasn’t been checking in.  A few years ago, he would have been the first at my door, making sure I was resting and eating… but then, he’s been extremely busy.  And times have changed.

I digress.

Moving forward, we’re continuing to direct efforts on two fronts – prevention and preparedness.

The Doctor bent my ear for a good while about how our survival training has grown complacent, and he’s right.  I have therefore directed him to begin refresher first-aid classes for every member of the crew.  His first students start bright and early tomorrow, and I expect they will all be eager and attentive.

This afternoon, our medics began stockpiling supplies both in sickbay and in three other locations that can serve as treatment centers, should the need arise.  We’ve created secondary backups to the EMH’s program and B’Elanna’s teams are going to install holo-emitters in cargo bay two and the mess hall.  I have also ordered the doubling of available medkits in all workrooms on the ship and had one delivered to each crew member’s quarters.  Tomorrow, I think I’ll add additional pre-packaged food and water rations to the list.

Tuvok is still running tactical drills in both holodecks for the better part of the day.  We need to re-open them soon for recreation, though, stress-relief is about to become priority number one.  Even the best trained soldiers are no good if they’re not calm.

Some may see this preparation as misdirected paranoia, but I see the efforts serving a dual purpose.  We will be prepared for whatever threatens us, either now or in the distant future.  And, a busy, empowered crew won’t have as much time to idly dwell on what-ifs. 

In the meanwhile, there’s not much else to be done.  I’m going to try to keep up with my personal log a little bit more deliberately.  Writing down what we’re doing seems to help me relax… it’s one of the only things that does these days.  Heaven knows I need to do something other than wear a path in the carpeting of my quarters.

* * *

**Day 18**

“You probably don’t know this, Captain,” the woman begins, “but I like to paint.”

Sir casts a glance across the ready room desk.  The captain’s lips are pressed tight together and so he moves the conversation forward.

“I remember, Mariah,” he says, angling slightly toward the officer.  “You showed me your folio when we were on the _Val Jean.”_

Crewman Henley smiles slightly and demurs.  “Well, I’m in the middle of creating a series of paintings.  I’ve been doing one a week on these little canvases.”  From the black pouch she carried in, she pulls a piece, not much larger than a padd.  “I pick a room with a bit of a view and do part of the interior of the ship juxtaposed with some portion of the stars outside.”

She lays the canvas flat on the desk and spins it toward the captain.  “I painted this one two days ago, from the couch in the mess hall.”

Sir takes a moment to admire the work which depicts the side of an unknown officer in a science-blue uniform, seated at a table with a vase of flowers.  In the background are the viewports, and a striking swirl of pinks and reds with black space and stars visible just beyond.

“The nebula is beautiful,” Sir remarks.

“I agree,” the captain says.  He is relieved to finally hear her voice.  “You’re very talented.”

Sir notices Henley start to blush.  “Thank you, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“I assumed not.”

They watch as she pulls another work from the pouch.

“This one,” Henley says, placing the second painting next to the first, “was waiting for me in my quarters when I got back this morning.”

Sir doesn’t look to the second painting; his gaze remains fixed on the captain.  She draws a deep breath and then releases it slowly.

“They’re the same.”

He finally chances a look. 

“They’re… almost the same,” Henley says.  “I’ve been studying them for the last hour.  The flowers in the vase are just a little different. The one I painted – rather, the one I remember painting – has an extra daisy.  And, the person in the uniform, Crewman McMinn, is missing in the second painting.”

“Still,” Sir says, “they’re remarkably similar.”

“There’s one other thing,” she says, spinning the first painting around.  “Dalby flopped down onto the couch next to me and bumped my arm when I was working on the edge of the nebula.  I made a little mistake.  I don’t really expect anyone else to notice, but it’s not on the second canvas.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve dated these?” the captain asks.

“As a matter of fact…” Henley bites her lip and flips both over.  “They match.  Though I don’t really need the date to confirm it.  The view of the nebula is constantly changing; these weren’t just done on the same day, but at nearly the same time as well.”

The captain nods her head and pinches the bridge of her nose.  “Thank you, Crewman,” she says.  “You’re dismissed now.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Henley replies.  She shoots Sir an awkward glance and then takes her leave.

* * *

Captain’s Log, Supplemental  
Stardate: 54767.4

The attached file was just provided to me by Crewman Harren.  A padd containing this log was found on his nightstand at approximately 0210 hours and tested positive for chroniton radiation.

\--

Copied File: Security Protected  
Personal Log  
Crewman Mortimer Harren  
Stardate: 54912.0

Well.  Let’s see.  It’s been about a week since I’ve done one of these and I’m waiting for a diagnostic to finish on the deflector array, so I figured, what the hell.  Maybe talking’ll keep me awake in this god-awful tube.

As is evidenced by the fact that I’m still dictating to a padd, the main computer core remains well and truly screwed.  When we brought that puppy down, we really brought it down.  Quite frankly, I’m surprised that we’ve been able to get anything done without it.  I’ll say this much for Carey, he must have been paying attention all those years serving under B’Elanna.  He’s come up with some pretty creative solutions.  She’d be proud of him.

I’d like to think she’d be proud of all of us.

Aw, fuck.  Who cares, really?  I’m getting sentimental down here in the dungeon.

We’re still in grey mode but coming out soon.  When we do, the captain assures us we’ll get at least one replicated meal a day.  And not a minute too soon, I’m damn sick of rations.  I didn’t have the kilos to lose like some of the others – namely Chell.  Now that I think about it, the one good thing to come of all of this is that at least I don’t have to share quarters anymore.

I heard Sam Wildman finally made it out of sickbay.  She’s the last.  A lot of people didn’t think she’d pull through, especially after Naomi...  I mean really, why bother?  But, the death toll stands at seventy-three.  Far too many for us to keep going.  And then, of course, there’s the radiation that’s slowly killing us, not like we could stay aboard even if we wanted to.

Doc says we’ll all live long enough to make it to the planet, but some people are really starting to show signs of poisoning.  Bronowski yacked all over my shoes in the turbolift yesterday and then passed out.  He’ll be ok, but that’s another able-body on restricted duty.

In a way, it’s a shame to have come this far just to settle now.  Janeway’d be pissed, that’s for sure.  Of all the shitty decisions she made for us over the years… well, she really stuck it to us with that last one.  I mean, I’m as much for first contact and diplomacy as the next guy, but I’d rather survive to see tomorrow.  Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if anyone else had been calling the shots.

Ow.  Dammit.  Shit-ass tube. 

Where was I…  Oh, right.

Never thought I’d say this, but I’m grateful for Chakotay.  There were a lot of people who thought he’d lose his marbles considering what went down with Janeway, but he’s kept it together.  He stepped up, put on the big-boy boots, and is leading us to a place where we might actually have a chance. 

Another two weeks at impulse and we’ll be… home.  I guess that’s what we’ll call it.  I hope it’s as nice as the scout party says.  I plan on finding myself a little corner somewhere and just staying the hell away from everyone for the rest of my life.

Ah, finally.  The diagnostic is done.  I have twenty minutes to grab a nap before hitting the next hundred things on my list.


	8. Days 19 - 20

* * *

**Day 19**

Sir finds the captain by the large viewport, hands clasped behind her back.  A single padd sits on an otherwise empty desk. 

He stops just below the first step and waits.

“Something, Commander?” she asks to the stars.

“Only if you have a minute.”

“If it’s good news, you can have an hour.”

He tugs his ear and looks to the floor.  “Not exactly.”

“Ah.  Well, let’s have it,” she says, meeting his eyes only briefly as she turns.  He follows her as she walks to take a seat behind the desk.

“I found something in my office yesterday, in a desk drawer,” he begins.  “I’m not sure how long it’s been there.  I may have missed it early on.”  He pulls the object from his pocket and closes is quickly in his fist.

“I know I should have reported this as soon as I found it.  But I had to try to make some sense of things first,” he explains.  “There’s only one reason I can think why I would have this in my possession… I’m hoping you’ll have another explanation.”

He avoids her eyes and outstretches his hand, offering her the small, velvet pouch he’s been clutching.  She pours the contents into her palm and discards the bag to the desktop.

With her fingertip, she touches each of four gold pips and then, out of instinct he thinks, she checks the back of the communicator.

She measures their weight and sighs into the silence; he tries not to think about someone removing those adornments from her corpse.

“I should have brought them sooner,” he apologizes, a wave of remorse filling him.

“It’s fine, Chakotay.”  She deposits the objects into her drawer without another look.  “I’ve got something to show you, too.”

She picks up the padd from the center of her desk and regards it seriously.  “Crewman Harren came to see me last night.  He found this after his shift.”  She taps the record against her palm.  “It’s a personal log, dated thirty-four days from today.”

“That sounds promising.  What does it say?”

“A rather candid future-Harren accuses me of making a very bad decision which resulted in the near destruction of _Voyager_ and the death of a great number of our crew.  He blames me, specifically and solely, for what happened.”

She hands him the padd, then rises from the chair and returns to the stars, patiently waiting for him to finish. 

A great many things race through Sir’s mind while he reads the log.  Mostly, though, he feels as if he’s seen this before.  The sense of déjà vu is overpowering and mixes with the written words, is jumbled and churned around, melds with speculation and fear in his mind, and he has to keep re-reading the same sentences over and over again.

When he reaches the end and remembers to exhale, he finds that his lungs are burning. 

“Seventy-three people,” he whispers.  But all he can focus on is that she will, indeed, be one of them.

“There can be no refuting it now, Chakotay.”  She turns from the window to face him.  “Something devastating _is_ going to happen.  We don’t know what, or exactly when, but one thing is clear.  It will be my fault.”

“Something happened to them, yes.  But are you willing to put that much stock in Harren’s personal log?  He’s obviously been through a lot, it’s possible –”

“Harren’s been known to stretch the truth, known to hold a grudge.  But I can’t believe he’d outright lie.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have all the facts?”

“He has more facts than we do.  And from what he said, this clearly involves me.”

“You’re the captain, everything involves you.”  She’s about to counter when he raises his hand and she stops short.  “It’s beside the point.  You keep referring to this future as a given.  Did this happen?  Yes.  Already, but not yet.  The changes we’ve made so far may have been enough to alter our fate.”

“I don’t believe that.  Our course hasn’t changed,” she reminds, then she starts ticking items off on her fingers.  “Tuvok still broke his toe, Celes’s vase shattered in the exact same way.  The tricorder readings, and Henley’s painting…”

“I know it all seems like damning evidence, and maybe you’re right,” he concedes.  “Maybe we are following a similar path.  But either way, you have to believe that when the time comes, you’ll make the right decision.”

“I obviously didn’t make the right decision the first go around.”  Her fists are balled at her sides.  “What makes you so sure I’ll make it this time?”

“Because, I trust you.  I trust you to use what we’ve learned and your instincts to keep this crew safe, just as you’ve done a hundred times before.  And I’ll be here to help you do that.”

“You won’t be if I put you in the brig,” she fires back.

He stumbles over the heat carried by her unexpected words.  “What?”

“Come on, Chakotay.  You know what Ayala brought me from inside cell number two.”

“My rank insignia?” he recalls.  And while he remembers that meeting, he cannot conceive of how he forgot to ask her about it sooner.

“Your rank insignia.”

Sir lets go of an exasperated breath.  He is tired of running around in circles with this woman, at times he just wants to shake her.  “Do you really think that _you_ put me in the brig?”

“A part of your uniform was in there, Chakotay.  At some point you _will_ be in that cell.”

“Maybe I was interrogating a prisoner.”

“Maybe you staged a mutiny.”  She takes an imposing step closer towards him.

“Not this again.” He massages his brow, shaking his head in disbelief.

“There was a Maquis _bomb_ on my bridge.”

“ _Your_ bridge?” he asks, incredulous at her use of language.  “Really, Kathryn?  A mutiny?  How many more years is it going to take to prove to you –”

“Ayala killed Jacobson,” she deadpans.  “We all heard the recording.”

“We don’t have solid proof of what happened to Jacobson.  He could have mistaken his attacker.  Maybe he was the aggressor, or Ayala was under the influence of a drug or an alien.  It could have been friendly fire,” he argues, his blood beginning to boil.  “There are a million things that could have happened and I was under the impression we wouldn’t be jumping to conclusions.”

“Fine, forget Ayala.  Forget the Maquis mutiny.  Maybe you disagreed with me and I threw you in the brig.  I’ve done it before.”

“I remember, believe me.  And I also know that you won’t do it again.  We’ve come a long way since… Ransom.”  The name sticks in his throat.

“Have we?  What’s the saying about history repeating itself?”

“Do you honestly believe I’m the enemy here?” He takes a step toward her, they’re near enough now that he actually could shake her if he wanted, and oh he’s so close to doing just that as frustration radiates off of both of them. “This isn’t like you, Kathryn.  All of this second guessing and running in circles.  What’s really going on?”

She’s staring into his eyes.  He’s hit the proverbial nail on the head, there is something else she’s hiding, something deeply personal and for the first time, he knows exactly what it is.  She’s paranoid, depressed, over-worked, and most of all, she’s terrified.  In that moment, holding her gaze, he thinks, maybe, she might open up.  This could be it, this could finally be when she cuts the bullshit and actually admits –

The door chimes, and the moment is lost.

She exhales and dips her head.  “No.  You’re right.  I don’t believe this is about you.  I just… I need some time to think.” Her voice imparts a forced calm.  “Have dinner with me tonight; let’s actually do it, no matter what.  We have to get away for a few hours and talk.”

He waits a moment, claws at the urge to get their lost connection back.  But then simply nods his agreement and takes a step away.  His heart is pounding but he’s grateful, at least, for a chance to resume this later.

Sir passes Tuvok on the way out and heads straight for his seat on the bridge.  From there, he looks out to the stars.  Each tiny pinprick pierces his vision, each of her nervous and accusatory words ring in his ears.  And all of it compounds to make his throbbing headache even more unbearable.

* * *

While their conversation may have been light, their dinner certainly wasn’t.  Belly full, slightly inebriated, and certainly more relaxed than he’s been in weeks, Sir moves with the captain from the dining table to their familiar places on the couch and adjacent chair.  He pours her another glass of wine and motions to the book resting at the center of her coffee table. 

“Moby Dick?” he asks, eyebrow raised.  “Doing a little light reading?”

“Not exactly.  You’ve read it?”

“Hasn’t everyone?”

She shrugs.  “I actually hate Moby Dick.  The symbolism is much too blatant, I like things with a bit more subtlety.  And quite frankly, I just don’t need to know that much about whale anatomy.”

This amuses him.  “Okay…” he chuckles.  “So, why don’t you pick something else?”

“It’s not the book I was reading, it was the inscription on the inside cover.  Have a look.”

Sir sets his glass down and does as asked.

_\---_

_Katie,_

_As you take to the sea of stars for the first command of your career, remember this:  Not all battles need to be fought.  Not all battles can be won.  Choose your foes wisely and not selfishly.  Above all else, you have lives to protect._

_-O.P._

\---

He stares at the page a moment longer, tries to determine who the initials belong to, but in his hazed state draws no useful conclusions.  He closes the cover. 

“Admiral Paris gave me this book when I was handed my first command,” she says, taking it from him.

“Not exactly uplifting,” he breathes, reaching again for his glass.

“Tom isn’t entirely wrong about his father.  Owen can be a harsh and highly critical man.  But he is also pragmatic.  His advice has never led me astray.”  She moves a finger over the embossed cover. “I’ve only had an occasion to revisit this inscription a few times in my career, all of them on _Voyager,_ ” she says after a time.  “Right after I destroyed the Caretaker’s array.  Again, when I made the alliance with the Borg.  The last time I pulled it off the shelf was when we were in mid-pursuit of Ransom.”

“I’m sensing a pattern,” he says carefully.

“All of those times, I knew – or I thought I knew – who our foe was and how far into the right I stood.  I weighed our risks, tried to be logical.  But this time… this time is different.”

“We don’t know who our enemy is.”

“That’s just it.”  She sets the book down and looks him square in the eye.  “I do know, Chakotay.  You asked me earlier what was really going on.  Nothing is wrong… it’s just that I’ve finally realized.” 

When she looks up at him, all he can see are her glassy tears.

“I’m the enemy.  I’m the one I’ve been hunting all these years.  It’s me.”

“Kathryn, you’re not making any sense.”

“I’m looking at this book again,” she says, ire leaching into her already shaky voice.  “It means that I’m questioning what I’m about to do.  And every other time I’ve been in this very same spot, things have ended – or almost ended – very badly.  They’ve ended in the death of my crew.  I can’t let that happen again, Chakotay.  I can’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m going to look past the words written here and think about what the admiral – what Owen – would say.”

He bites his lip, his fingers dig impulsively into his own thigh.  “Which is?”

“He’d say, ‘Katie.’” She straightens her chin, exhales the emotion from her voice.  “‘If you can’t trust yourself to make the right decision, put your trust in someone else.’”

Sir has seen this coming, of course.  He’s noted the signs, but now that the moment has arrived, he’s entirely unsure of what to say.  And so, he says nothing at all.

“Tomorrow, at the start of alpha shift, I want you to assemble the crew.” 

His eyes widen and he is suddenly very sober.  A half-formed memory ignites adrenaline.

“Don’t worry,” she says, holding up her hand.  “I’m not going to take off in a shuttle.  But I am going to hand over command to you.”

“You’re serious?”

“The only thing I can say for sure about this whole mess is that I need to be removed from the equation.  There is a chance that without my influence, different decisions will be made.  _Voyager_ can still meet a better fate.”

The captain is the one who will wait now.  He needs a surprising amount of time to form a coherent thought against the storm of emotions that are raging.  He tempers the urge to lash out at her and instead goes for a more diplomatic approach.

“Let’s assume for the moment that you’re right and something you do causes a disaster.”

“Okay.”  She relaxes back into the cushions.

“You and I have very similar command styles.  Ninety-nine times out of one hundred, we agree.”

“I know.”

“Then you know that walking away probably won’t make much of a difference.”

“Maybe not,” she concedes, looking to her folded hands.  “But right now, this is the only decision I can make that will almost certainly be different than anything that was done before.  Harren says in his logs that I was the one calling the shots.  And now I won’t be.  But beyond that, I need to step back.  I need… clarity.  Perspective.”

He knows there’s more, and that this is extremely difficult for her to say.  When she speaks again, he’s not at all surprised at the emotion in her voice.

“The crew deserves the best leader it can have, and I’ve realized that, at the moment, I’m not that person.”

He shakes his head and stares into his wineglass, finding nothing more than a few drops there.  But then, in the middle of searching for a way to protest, he begins to come around to the idea.  It is as if a switch is flicked, and he no longer wants to argue.

If she’s honestly not confident in the command chair, then she shouldn’t be there.  If she’s really having problems maintain perspective, then she should be removed.  And he can do this.  He can lead.  He can get them to safety.  He should be the one to do it.  _Yes._   Why hasn’t he been there all along?

But, he mustn’t rush this. 

“I’m sorry you feel like there isn’t another way,” he says softly.  “I would never believe that taking you off the bridge is in the best interest of our crew.”

A guarded smile broaches her lips, she reaches across the space between them and places a tentative hand on his knee.  “I appreciate that...  But it seems I already had my chance and I failed.  I trust you, Chakotay.  When it comes to keeping us all safe, right now, I trust you much more than I trust myself.”

* * *

**Day 20**

Ens. Harry Kim  
Personal Log  
Stardate: 54769.1

Oh boy, what a day. 

Where to begin?  Ah… well, before my shift even started, the senior staff and all of the department heads were called to the bridge.  In all our years on _Voyager,_ I can only recall a handful of times a meeting like that has taken place, and let’s just say it’s never been to throw a party. 

Janeway and Chakotay came out from the ready room at precisely 0800 hours.  You could have heard a pin drop when the captain launched into her speech, Chakotay at a perfectly still parade-rest behind her.

She talked about how proud she was of each and every one of us.  She talked about the strange situation we were currently in.  She talked about faith and trust.  She asked for our support one last time.

Then she turned to Chakotay and said, “I hereby resign my rank of Captain.  All rights and privileges, duties and responsibilities therein.”

It was a show, really.  Just a formality.  The command codes had already been transferred, the decision long since made.  It felt like finality on stage.  Nothing we could have said or done would have changed a thing.  A little bit of warning would have been nice though… I wonder if even Tuvok knew.

I remember the last time Captain Janeway tried to hand over command to Chakotay.  He came to us, implored us to stop her and support her.  He knew that her life, her ability to stay in command, was worth any risk we had to take.  But not this time.  This time, he shook her hand, said, “I relieve you,” and there was a smile on his lips and in his eyes. 

He wanted this.

How?  How could he want this?

At the outset of this mystery-turned-horror novel we’ve been living the last weeks, we had a ‘no secrets’ policy.  The command team told us everything.  But something has changed.  I’m no longer read in.  It’s not just the mystery objects that scare me.  Not even the news of my own death scares me anymore.  But the secrets, the strange glances.  The hidden things scare me. 

I’ll do my duty.  I’ll obey every command.  I’ll follow Captain Chakotay across the galaxy if I have to.

But you’d better believe I’m keeping all of my senses trained on that chair.  And I won’t feel comfortable again until I hear Chakotay repeat the words she left us with.

“I stand relieved.”

* * *

It is the middle of gamma shift before Sir can have unfettered access to the tactical station, free from the prying eyes of his ever-attentive security-chief-turned-first-officer.

He has carefully assigned the roster for the evening.  Harry Kim is on duty in the big chair.  Jenkins is at the helm, Blaine at ops.

“Com– Captain,” Kim stutters and jumps to his feet when Sir strides out of the turbolift.

“As you were, Mr. Kim,” he replies, moving toward the back console.  “I’m only checking a few things.”

“Anything we can help you with?”

“Just keep your eyes ahead and let me worry about what I need.”

Sir’s fingers work deftly over the controls.  A rerouted algorithm here, a pre-programed subroutine there. He ties the control of multiple, major ships systems together neatly into a single command-override.  He’s about to save the program when a thought pops into his head.

“Ensign,” Sir says, drawing his eyes down a level.  “Actually, there is something you can do for me.”

“Of course, Sir.” 

“Would you go get me a cup of coffee?”

Kim’s eyebrows rise and he pauses.  “Coffee?” 

“Problem with your hearing, Mr. Kim?”

Blonde-haired Jenkins turns slightly and sends an amused glance towards the ensign. 

“One… coffee.  Coming up.  Um…” Kim looks uneasily to the other two officers on deck.  “Anyone else want anything?”

Blaine shakes his head. 

“I’m okay, thank you,” says Jenkins, a hint of amusement in her voice. 

Kim silently exits through the back hall.

Sir’s attention snaps back to the tactical station.  He works a few more keys.  A quiet chirp issues from the console between the command chairs and Sir moves with purpose to silence it.  He deletes the notification, confirms the authorization sequence, and departs the bridge before Kim returns with his coffee.


	9. Days 21 - 23

* * *

**Day 21**

From: Kathryn Janeway  
To: Captain Chakotay  
Stardate: 54774.2  
Auto-delivery: Protocol 1A

In all of my years in Starfleet, for all of the horrible, no-win situations we've encountered in the Delta Quadrant, through each of the times I thought that my own death was a foregone conclusion, or in the hours after surviving something truly traumatic, I've never brought myself to compose a final message.

I could say that I simply didn't have the time to dedicate to the task. I could admit that I felt such an act would be inviting my own demise.  Or, I could believe I simply didn’t have anything left to convey that I didn’t already say while I was alive.

And, for the most part, all of those things are true.  Certainly, the final statement is.  Those I command know how much they are valued, how proud I am of each and every one of them for their service and their sacrifice, how much they’ve meant to me.  At least, I hope they do.

But there is one person… I owe him more.  I owe _you_ more, Chakotay.  That’s why I’m writing this to you now.  Because you deserve to hear the truth from me, and because I need the peace of mind.

I fully expect _Voyager_ to emerge from this most recent series of events unscathed.  I have every confidence in this crew, in you, Chakotay.  Please don’t take this message to mean that I was hedging my bets against your failure.  And, when we’re safely on the other side and you’ve given me my chair back, I will delete this.

But for now… just for now, just in case, there are a few things I’d like to say.

I wanted home, Chakotay.  I wanted home so badly.  Not only because I felt like I owed everyone, which of course I did – I do.  Not just because I wanted to see my mother, my sister, even Mark again.

I wanted home, because I wanted you.

Sometimes I’d stare out my window and Earth would feel so very close.  If I could just reach out into space, I could touch it.  But then I’d walk back to the bridge, I’d look at the faces around me and the distance would multiply in an instant, again our journey was inconceivably long, our destination an impossibility. 

But not you.  In those moments, the only thing close was you.

It’s been a long time since we talked about any kind of future for us beyond the hull of this ship.  Two years, now?  It feels like so much longer since you took me to Venice and we danced and kissed and planned.  That night was comforting to me for a while, but somewhere along the line, the possibility of _us_ became too difficult for me to think about.  I locked you away with all my other hopes and dreams.

Still, a part of me never gave up believing that if we could just get back, things might be different.  That free of these trappings, we might grow to be something more than a smattering of fruitless sentiments and missed opportunities.

If this letter finds its way to you, if I’m wrong and everything goes to hell, I just wanted you to know how I felt.  Also know that I don’t blame you.  There’s no one in this universe I trust more, both with _Voyager,_ and with my own life.

If you couldn’t save us, then no one could.

-Kathryn

* * *

Another evening and Sir – along with his new title – once again occupies a table in the mess hall, padds scattered about, tea in hand.

“Late night, Captain?”

The voice makes him smile.  “B’Elanna,” he says.  “What are you still doing up?  You know you should be –“

“Getting more rest, yes, I know.  Get in line if you intend to scold me.”

He waves her into the seat across from him.  “Sorry, force of habit.”

“Whatcha reading?” she asks, spinning one of the padds around to take a look.

“Captain’s business,” he snaps, snatching it back. 

She jerks in surprise, then tenses, and he feels instantly guilty.  “Sorry,” he offers.  “I’m just… catching up on some things.”

“Well, if some of those things are composing your daily report, then I have something you can add,” she says, in a decidedly less friendly tone.

“Would I be happier if you didn’t tell me?”

“Yes.  But you’d also be missing a piece of our gigantic, depressing puzzle.  Carey called me down about an hour ago, that’s why I’m still awake.”

Tea acid rises in his gullet, burning his throat.  Carey’s concern for her well-being is second only to Tom’s.  If Carey called her away from sleep, then –

“He found a magnetic constrictor, Chakotay.  Or, actually, half of a constrictor.  It went down the centerline, shear failure right at the coupling.  There’s only one thing that would cause that kind of break…” she says, looking up to judge his reaction.

He sinks back in his chair.  “They dumped the core at warp.”

“They dumped the core at warp.”

The words fall, heavy and final.

“At least we know they survived, right?” she says, trying to draw his gaze upward.  One hand rests on her swollen belly.  “I mean, if we’re still getting stuff from them, they must have ejected the core before it breached.  And they got far enough away…”

“Are you trying to look on the bright side?”

“I’m… yes.  I suppose I am,” she smiles ever-so-slightly.  “I figure, you’re always the one trying to be Janeway’s bright side.  And now, you’re basically Janeway.  It’s not like Tuvok is going to come in and try to make you feel better.”

Her thoughtfulness touches him deeply.  “I appreciate that, B'Elanna.  I really do.”

“But?”

He looks up at her, rubs his brow and says, “You should get back to bed.  Tomorrow will be here before you know it.”

* * *

**Day 22**

“Computer, display _Voyager’s_ path for the last… twenty-five days,” Sir says, standing before the oversized screen.

The computer chirps its acceptance and does as requested.

“Overlay a second course.  Assume that on stardate 54753.5 _Voyager_ continued through the class three nebula in grid C-five at a bearing of 118.3 mark four, average speed of warp six.”

“Captain?”

Sir hears the voice behind him but does not turn around.  Instead his gaze is affixed on the two diverging lines.

“Computer, continue to extrapolate course for both ships.”

_“Please specify parameters.”_

A figure approaches him from his left.  “I did not realize you required time using the astrometric display.”

“I’ll just be a few minutes, Seven.  Actually, maybe you can help me.”

“You require assistance plotting an historically hypothetical course for _Voyager_?”

“I do.”

“One moment.” 

Sir watches as nimble fingers laced with silver dance across the control panel.   A few seconds later the two paths are laid out side by side, one red, one purple.  “I am not certain what you hope to achieve by examining these separate routes.”

“Neither am I,” Sir replies.  He leans forward, his elbows touching the console.  “Is there anything out there that we wouldn’t have encountered had we chosen to travel through the nebula?”

Seven cocks an eyebrow, then enters a few more commands.

“There are three star systems that will be within two light years on our present course,” she informs.  “Had we gone through the nebula, they would have been no closer than five light years.”

“Any of them habitable?”

“There is one L-Class planet in the third system.  Otherwise, no.”

“Do the Borg have any history with species from this region?”

“Several,” she confirms.  “It would be more efficient for me to compile a report for your review.”

“Yes.  Please do,” he says.  “Computer, delete the hypothetical course.”  He leans further down, putting the full weight of his chin into his hands.  “Nothing else out there then?” he mumbles, eyes drifting along the purple line.

“I do not understand the question.”

“No… no I’m not asking you, it was rhetorical.  I just… I can’t put my finger on it but I feel like there’s something out there.”  His eyes continue to go to the third star.  “Computer, enhance grid H-nine.”

The system zooms into view.  Blue dwarf star, four planets.  It’s the fourth that has his eye, mostly grey, only sparse vegetation and no water to be seen.  Unbidden, a single word enters his mind.

_Home._

His next breath sticks in his throat.

“Computer, given current speed, when will _Voyager_ be closest to the L-Class planet shown on screen?”

_“Nine days, two hours, and twenty-six minutes.”_

For a fleeting moment, surely the planet before him is home.  His mind is filled with images of green and blue, he can see the swirling clouds of white.  A rush of euphoric happiness and warmth pass over him, but it quickly dissipates into apprehension as the planet turns back to grey.

He swallows hard and blinks away the errant vision.  “Keep long-range sensors focused along our path,” he tells Seven.  “Let me know the instant anything shows up.”

“That was my intent.”

“Good.  Just… good.”

* * *

**Day 23**

Ensign Elena Harper  
Personal Log  
Stardate: 54780.7

These sedatives don’t work for shit.

I think they’ve had the opposite effect, actually.  I’ve already dosed myself with double what the Doctor prescribed, but I still feel like I want to run out the nearest airlock.  I’d have better luck with coffee, I swear.

I also need to change my sheets.  And my pillow.  That might help.  Yes, I’m going to go do that.

I’m back.

I recycled the sheets, the pillows, and the comforter.  I want to do the mattress too, but it won’t fit.  I don’t have enough rations to replicate another blanket.  So, that’s pretty shitty.  Oh, but I cracked open that bottle of N’Tarian brandy Matt gave me for my birthday. 

Mmm… yeah.  The sedatives might not work, but alcohol should take the edge off. Doesn’t taste half-bad either.

I’m still not ready to go back to sleep.  It’s a shame.  I was having such a good sleep.  A sound sleep.  I was right in the middle of such a lovely dream. There were puppies in my dream, I miss puppies…

Refill time.

Maybe I should drink a toast to Matt.  That seems appor… approrpr… like the thing to do.

To Crewman Matthew Dell.  Aspiring engineer.  Boyfriend.  Lover of all things peanut butter.

I’m sorry you died… no, wait.  That’s not right.  I’m sorry you’re going to die.  I’m really sorry you’re going to die in my bed.  But mostly I’m sorry I rolled over in the middle of the night and cuddled with you before I realized you were dead.

I need another shower.

I’m going to go take another shower.

I’m back.

I took another shower and had another really big glass of that whiskey.  I’m feeling much better about all of this now.  It’s kinda funny if you think about it.  Ha!

That’s what I’ll do, I’ll laugh.  Someday this will be a really fucking funny story, won’t it?

Matt should shift off shift soon, then he can laugh with me.  He’s just going to laugh and laugh when I tell him what happened.  And then, maybe, when we’re done talking about how funny it is that he’s going have a giant hole blown in his chest, we’ll go to his quarters and I can finally sleep.

Or, maybe he’ll feel like drinking with me.  That’s it!  We’ll stay up all night and play board games. 

Games are fun. 

It’s a good thing I like games.  I’m going to be playing a lot of them, ‘cause let’s be super honest, I’m definitely never going to ship on this sleep again.

Oh.

I think I’m gonna be sick.

* * *

Kathryn Janeway  
Personal Log  
Stardate: 54780.9

It’s been a while since I’ve noticed just how very small my quarters are.

They may be the largest on the ship by comparison, but that’s relative.  To an apartment or a house… my mother’s farm, they’re miniscule, nothing more than a closet or a garage at best.

And I feel the walls growing closer with every passing minute.

I want to leave.  I want to walk around the ship and move.  But when I’m out, I am being judged.  Without the mask of uniform and duty, I am an open target.  Not that anyone would say something to my face, of course, but I am more vulnerable now than I ever have been. 

They haven’t heard of Harren’s log.  It would be too much, too devastating.  And so instead, they question me with their silent stares, wonder why I’ve abandoned them in their time of need.  I don’t have the strength to defend myself, to say, “I’ve done this for you so that things might be different.”

I’ve also sworn that I will not meddle in ship’s business.  By my calculations, another twenty-odd objects should have appeared since I gave up command.  I can only guess at what they might be.  More personal effects?  Triage gear?  Bodies, weapons?  Who knows?  It’s driving me slowly mad being out of touch, even though I’m certain this distance is for the best.  I find myself periodically checking my quarters, but there’s nothing.  Every sound I hear from the hallway grabs my attention; every whir of the ventilation system pulls at my ear.  I’m waiting for the sound of screaming or weapons fire or a red alert.

Chakotay didn't come by today.  He said he would, but...  I’m not going to try to interpret what that means, about either our personal relationship or the current state of ship’s business.  Even if he had shown up, I wouldn’t have asked more than a few, superficial questions – not of him or anyone else who happens by.  I don’t want to know.  I don’t want to affect their decisions.

So, I stay here.  I pace.  I read.

I wait.

I sit with my guilt.  And my shame.  And the walls closing down around me.


	10. Day 24

* * *

**Day 24**

“Captain, thank you for coming down so quickly,” a frantic EMH greets Sir at the threshold to sickbay.

“What is it, Doctor?” he asks, annoyance slipping into his voice.  There is somewhere else he needs to be.  His desire to get back to the bridge is so very strong at this moment, and yet, like everything else lately, he can’t put a finger on why. 

“Our duplicate Crewman Dell, in addition to having been injected with a massive dose of hydrocortilene before being killed, has one of the shapeshifting aliens embedded in his skull,” the Doctor says, leading Sir to the morgue.  Once inside, the Doctor positions himself at the top of the table and turns the head of the deceased to the left.  There, just below the hairline, are two small marks – dried blood is crusted underneath. 

“Hydrocortilene is for headaches, isn’t it?

“Yes, it’s a common analgesic.  And, given the size of alien wrapped around his brain, I’d say he would have needed it, though probably not at more than twenty times the recommended dose.”

Sir pinches the bridge of his nose and thinks, ever-so-briefly, about his own persistent pain.

“This is what we have been waiting for,” the Doctor says.  “ _This_ is what must have happened – will happen – to _Voyager._   Somehow these creatures got on board and hijacked the crew.  All the pieces are falling into place.  The alien body in the conference room, the same tunneling puncture wounds on Tuvok and the way he was killed – bashed in the back of the head.”

Sir nods, looking down at the body of the fallen officer.  His blue eyes are stuck open, staring at nothing.  Blood has soaked through his grey undershirt and subsequently dried.  There’s an accompanying smell, but it doesn’t churn Sir’s stomach as it might have once. 

“Doctor,” he asks, drawing his eyes up from the corpse.  “What time is it?”

“Time?  It’s 08:43 hours, why?”

He tugs as his ear.  “We should have been there by now,” he mutters.

“Been where?” the Doctor asks, bewildered.  “Aren’t you paying attention?  What happened to Crewman Dell is potentially very important.  If I can figure out more about the parasite’s anatomy, how it interacts with the host, the role of the chroniton radiation –”

“Yes.  I know.  It’s very interesting.”  Sir begins to walk around the small room, he examines the items on the shelves, the little bottles and tubes, runs a finger along the edge of the counter.

“Interesting?” the Doctor repeats, growing ever irritated.  “I may have just unraveled the last of this mystery and he finds it interesting.  I do hope I’m not boring you with this, Captain.”

“You’re not boring me, but I’m telling you we should have…” he picks up a laser scalpel, examines it, and then puts it back down again.  “What time did you say it was again?”

“I have more important things to do right now than be a clock!”

_“Tuvok to Captain Chakotay.”_

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.  “Ah, what did I say?” Sir meets the Doctor’s holographic eyes and then glances to the ceiling.  “Yes, Mr. Tuvok?”

“We are being hailed by a vessel approximately two light years from our present position.  They are in need of assistance.  We have changed course to intercept.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“A distress call?” Panic flairs on the Doctor’s holographic face.  “This could be it!  Whatever you do, don’t send anyone over.  Don’t let them onboard, not until I have more time to examine Crewman Dell.”

“Thank you for your concern, Doctor, but trust me, I have this well in hand,” Sir says, walking towards the doors with an even stride. 

“Computer, deactivate the EMH and lockdown the program to my authorization.  Captain’s security protocol, lambda-six-three.”

He doesn’t look back.

* * *

Sir’s feet are moving faster than I’ve experienced in all of my time inside his mind.  He’s running, pulse racing, legs aching.  Even if he understood this urgency I’ve imparted, he couldn’t fight me if he tried.

The turbolift door slides open and he heaves in a breath.

Our craft comes into view.  The last of his will dissipates like smoke into air.

What was his becomes fully _mine_.

“Open a channel,” I say through his lips, still panting slightly.

“NCC-74656, I wish you greetings.  My name is Ash-Ai,” says the tall man on the screen.  Sitting next to him is his female, Cyn-Tai.  I resist the urge to greet them as the friends they are.  “We are grateful that you have answered our hails.  My ship has been damaged and our mechanic is dead.  Can you help us?”

“I am Captain Chakotay, of the Federation Starship _Voyager_ ,” I say, dragging his hand along the banister as I make my descent to the command level.  “Would you like to bring your vessel aboard so that we can assist you?”

A broad smile crosses Ash-Ai’s face, his innocent face betrays no sign of the power that lurks within. 

“Captain,” I hear from behind, but I do not turn.  “Are you certain that is the wisest course of action?  We may be able to offer assistance remotely, with less potential danger to _Voyager._ ”

“Are you friend or foe?” I ask Ash-Ai.

“Friend, of course.  We mean you no harm, we’re only in need of assistance.  Our nutrient-supply system is offline, our life-support is failing, and my colleague is in need of a doctor.”

“Your word is good enough for me,” I reply.  “Lower shields, tractor them into the shuttlebay.”  Behind me, the Ops ensign shifts his feet.

“Captain Chakotay.  I wish to discuss –”

“I said, lower shields and bring them onboard _,”_ I repeat before the Vulcan causes further delay.  The pilot turns to make eye contact with everyone but me. 

“Mr. Ash-Ai,” says Tuvok behind me.  “Please excuse us for a moment.”

The viewscreen is cut off.

“Is there some kind of problem, Tuvok?” I bark, snapping backwards. 

“Need I remind you that we are currently at yellow alert?  Protocol dictates that we maintain shield integrity and do not allow anyone aboard _Voyager_.  That said, given the curious series of events over the last weeks, I believe it would be prudent to use a bit more caution when it comes to this vessel and its occupants.”

“This _vessel_ is small.  There are only two individuals onboard.  They have asked for our help,” I state through gritted teeth.  “We will not deny them assistance out of fear.”

“I am not suggesting that we turn our backs, rather, offer an away team or try to help from this distance.  Bringing them onboard _Voyager_ seems like an unnecessary risk at this time.  Given the situation –”

“Given the situation, I apparently need to remind you that Janeway put me in command because she wanted me to have the freedom to make different decisions then she would.”

Tom swivels more completely in his seat to face me.  “Captain Janeway, before all this – this stuff appeared – would have brought that craft aboard,” he says. 

“He’s right,” Kim agrees.

“I concur,” Tuvok says.  “The action you are proposing has, by my estimations, a ninety-seven percent chance of being the same decision she would have made.”

“Since when are my orders up for debate?”  I cannot help the bark that escapes his lips at their insolence.

“Since you have begun acting erratically,” Tuvok replies, I see his hand moving towards the bottom of the console.

I let go of a low growl that reverberates through the back of his throat.  I’m wasting precious time.  If they won’t bring Ash-Ai and his cargo on board willingly, then I will.  Before I lose complete control over this situation.

“Computer,” I bark.  “Initiate command override, Chakotay-zeta-nine.”

Tuvok and Kim snap back to their stations.

“I’ve just lost helm control, warp drive is offline,” Paris announces, lifting his hands into the air.

“Weapons systems are unavailable,” Tuvok says, his fingers dance across the panel.

“Transporters and turbolifts just went down, too,” says Kim, “and internal communications.  We’re cut off from the rest of the ship.”

“What the hell did you do?” Paris accuses, panic rising in his voice.

“What is the status of our shields?” I ask, turning sharply to the back.

Tuvok is still fighting with the interface and does not respond. 

“Shields!?” I bark again.

“I was able to override your pre-programed orders and maintain our shield integrity,” Tuvok says.  “The shuttlebay doors also remain closed.  Computer, Red Alert.”

The lights flash and the claxon hurts his ears, making it hard for me to concentrate.

“No!” I throw his body into the captain’s chair and towards center console.  The people around me are a blur of yellow and red uniforms.  Unspoken orders are being given, and I can feel them closing in.

“Chakotay!”

My fingers freeze.  That voice.  It doesn’t belong on _my_ bridge.  _What is she doing here?_

“Chakotay,” she says again.  “I know what’s happening.  I know what you are.”

I ignore her, continuing to work the console to no avail.  “Dammit,” I curse.  From under her seat I pull a phaser, only to find myself staring down the barrel end of five more.

This is the point where I should shift, I should go back three minutes, maybe four.  It would be simple enough to take over the Vulcan.  But after everything I’ve learned, trading bodies seems like the easy way out.  I can do this with him.  I will.  Because my greatest asset, his most prized possession, is walking down towards me right now with her hands held up to all the others. 

“Chakotay,” she says, coming near with palms outstretched.  “Are you still Chakotay?”

Grinning with this face provides a fantastic sensation.  I watch, pleased, as she swallows her fear.

“I am and I am not.  We are Chakotay now.  Just as you will all be with another soon.”

Harry Kim’s weapon begins to tremble.  “He’s going to shoot me,” I say, indicating with my eyes the one who is most likely to fire first.

“They won’t fire without my orders,” she tells them.

“You’re not in command anymore.”

“Technically not, but neither are you.  And they’ll listen to me.  Now, why are you doing this?  Help me understand.”

I laugh.  It feels good to expel this air from his lungs, to hear his voice finally speak my true thoughts.  “You narrow-minded, un-taken fools,” I spit.  “You think you have such a noble journey, such a grand destiny of exploration and peace before you, and yet you think in one dimension.  Your destiny is to become so much more.”

“We don’t want what you are offering.  We want to remain as we are.  We want to continue on our way, able to make our own decisions.”  With each sentence, she chances a step to me.

“If you come any closer, I’ll kill him,” I warn, turning the phaser inward until it rests against his soft belly.  I want her to know that I can end his life, though I won’t.  I’ve become rather attached and I’d quite like to stay _him_ for as long as I can. 

Her eyes dart to my weapon and I see my threat has the desired effect.  The fear in her heart is written plainly on her face and she stills, waving everyone further back.

“I have seen you as you truly are, Kath- _ryn_ ,” I say.  “I’ve seen your capacity for love, your strength and compassion.  I’ve also been privy to your slow decline into darkness and despair.  I know you want for more.  With our help you can have it.  You can have him and your freedom.”

“If you know me at all, then you know that my only goal is ensuring the safe return of my crew to Earth.”

“An absurd quest,” I say.  “Allow yourselves to be joined and you’ll not need such trivial pursuits.”

“At what cost?  Our free will?  From what I see, you certainly aren’t letting Chakotay have any say in what he’s – you’re – doing.  Can he even hear me?”

“He can hear you.”

“Then let me speak to him.”

I release my grip from around his strangled mind, but only slightly.

“Kathryn,” he gasps, and with the transition we fall to his knees, his phaser clatters to the floor.  “Don’t listen,” he begs, “don’t… please…”

“Chakotay,” she says, rushing towards him.  She squats down.  “Chakotay, you have to fight this.  It’s been with you all along.  I know what’s happening to you.  I know what happened to the future _Voyager_.”

“Silence!” I shout, snatching back control.  With one swift move, I knock her to the ground and regain the weapon.  His forearm presses her chest to the floor.

“Lower the shields and bring them aboard or I kill her,” I announce without breaking my stare into her helpless eyes.

“Threatening the captain’s life will not encourage us to put this ship at risk.”  Tuvok’s words are no surprise but they grate on my patience.

I straddle her chest with his strong legs, dig the phaser into her sternum and place his broad hand around her throat where her flesh is soft.  She gasps, the squeak she issues is like nothing I’ve heard before.  It rings in his ears. 

He’s fighting me and it’s taking more energy than I would like to keep him at bay.  I squeeze harder, her pulse quickens against my palm.  She is silent.  Her eyes beg me for mercy but she is eerily calm.  Deep under the blanket of control I’ve laid, _he_ begins to panic.

Officers are moving close.  They’re going to try to stop me.  “Lower.  Shields,” I say again, jabbing her with the weapon.  “Open the bay doors.”  His thumb twitches on the trigger.  “Now!”

The officers halt, unwilling to let either of their defunct captains die.

Someone will comply with my orders, I know they will.  I just have to wait –

But then, I perceive a hiss. 

A cool sensation fills his leg.  “No…” I gasp, releasing her in my confusion.  She sucks in a breath, coughs once, twice and rubs at her neck.  A fog begins to fall over me. 

She raises her hand, shows me a hypospray.  Her voice is hoarse when she speaks again.  “I hear you have a headache.”

He drops the phaser.

Control is slipping, slipping away.  He reaches out to comfort her, to check her, and make sure she is alright.  He’s pulling her up, holding her…

I’m out of time.  I have failed.

I have no choice but to flee.


	11. Days 95 - 96

* * *

**Day 95**

Sir approaches the makeshift village from the west, moving slowly through the tall grasses which swish past his legs.  The sun is beginning to set as he lumbers on; he hadn’t realized that he’d wandered so far away and now, with every fiber in his body screaming, he wishes he had stayed closer to home.

Home.

That’s what this is, after all. 

Drawing closer to the settlement, voices become clearer.  People are milling about in the last minutes before dark.  Warm light from inside the modular constructs drift out into the trodden lane that connects the thirty-nine buildings as a kind of neighborhood.

He smiles and nods to Henley, Gilmore, and Murphy who are sitting near a campfire, glances to Harren, who is apparently too stubborn to stop reading just because it’s now dark, catches sight of two people walking hand in hand, though he can’t make out who they are.

Eventually he comes up to kneel beside Carey and Vorik by the supply building.  Vorik has a flashlight trained inside the casing of the main power-converter module.

“How are we doing?” Sir asks.

“The system is operating within expected tolerances,” Vorik reports. 

Carey shuts the manifold and turns the handle to lock it.  “Tomorrow we’ll hook up the third and fourth sets of solar panels.  After that, and with everything we’ve syphoned off of _Voyager,_ we’ll be good to go for decades,” he says. 

Sir swears he hears a hint of pride in the man’s voice, and rightfully so.  After everything this crew has been through in the last months – fending off an insidious alien invasion, the loss of half of their comrades, then hobbling through space on minimal resources – the long-term survival of those who are left no longer rests with commanding officers, rather, with a handful of skilled engineers.

He shows his approval with a pat on Carey’s back.  Then, with effort, he rises and continues on his way.

A faint smell of hot, sweet fruit wafts past.  A couple dozen meters ahead, Neelix is standing above a large stew pot, stirring, while Chell looks over his shoulder.  Just beyond the cooking fire is the edge of the vast grove of food-laden trees which made this valley so appealing a place to settle.  Several people, barely more than shadows, are gathering kindling for their fires.  One of them is singing softly.  Tal, he realizes.  Tal is the one humming.  And Rollins is with her.

Nozawa emerges from his home to bring in a few towels which had been left to dry by the sun.  “Evening, Captain,” he says.

Sir dispenses with the need to correct him – there are no titles here, not anymore – and instead he simply wishes the man a restful night.

He chances a glance towards the pond to the north, sees a few people bathing there.  Moonlight, now brighter than the sunset, reflects off the mirrored surface, highlighting the figures in its wake.

Nearing the edge of the settlement, Sir focuses his attention to seek out one specific person.  He could use his communicator, certain that his former first officer still carries one, but looking with his eyes and heart feels more organic in this place. 

The effects of a long day and an even longer walk has him fatigued to his very core.  He rests a moment with his hand against one of the modules, Baytart and Dorado’s home, he believes.  But somewhere along the way he’s lost track of who lives where.  He tries to focus, takes in a long breath, and the nausea which has been steadily building is allayed for a moment.

Another twenty meters ahead, he finds Paris cleaning his boots on a squat bench outside of the dwelling he now shares with Samantha Wildman.  What an unexpected pair, he thinks, Tom and Sam.  The only two with families on board – both of those families torn apart.  Each surviving with grief far greater than the others, yet somehow bonded by it.

Sir remembers the night Samantha finally woke in sickbay, the Doctor was still offline and Tom, though nearly paralyzed by his own anguish, was so intently focused on saving this one, last person.  Sir worried in that moment that if Samantha were lost, Tom surely would be as well.

He also remembers coming to Samantha’s bedside the next day, when it was fairly certain that she would survive, prepared to tell her about Naomi but unable to form the words.  That’s when Tom stepped up, said simply, “Let me.”

“Ah, Chakotay.”

Sir is roused from his memories as Tom looks up from his boot.  “Right on time.  Hang on and I’ll get the, uh… stuff.”  He disappears into the house.

Sir takes Tom’s seat, puts his head between his legs, and inhales a few deep breaths.  He reminds himself that in just a few moments, the pernicious voice inside his head will be muzzled, relegated once again to that of a silent bystander.

“You’ve been gone a while. I was wondering if we were going to have to send a search party,” Tom says, re-emerging.

“Just out for a walk.”  The cool hypo is pressed to his neck, and he waits for the bit of relief to spread throughout his body. 

“Nice night for it,” Tom replies, releasing the medication.  “How’s that?”

It takes a moment, but soon Sir’s pain, and the insidious noise, abates.  “Better, thank you.”

“Any more hallucinations?” Tom asks, squatting low in front of him.

“No.  Still gone.”

“You know, Chakotay,” Tom says, biting his lip.  “Exerting yourself isn’t going to help your situation.  Doc said –“

“I know what the Doctor said,” Sir replies, too tired to snap as he would otherwise do.  “It doesn’t really matter, does it?  Two weeks or three?  I’d rather see what I can while I’m able.  Plus, I needed to get away and think.”

Tom’s brow is furrowed, his eyes cast downward.  “I just wish there was some other way…”

“I wish a lot of things, too,” Sir says, fighting back a rising tide of sorrow mixed with sickness.  He lifts his chin, stands from the bench and tugs at his shirt.  “So, tomorrow,” he says, “I trust you’ve spoken with everyone?”

Tom nods.  “There are just a few things we need to grab.  Joe and I will have the _Flyer_ ready whenever you are.”

“Right after breakfast,” Sir says.  “Goodnight.  And thank you.”

* * *

**Day 96**

In comparison to the planet below, the artificial atmosphere onboard is cold, dry, and stinks of burnt metal. 

From the moment he steps foot into the shuttlebay, Sir’s eyes begin to play tricks on him once again.  He blinks once, twice, but the vision of a crewmember in blue doesn’t disappear.  He focuses toward this semi-transparent image of a long-dead officer still manning his post, then notices that Tom and Carey are both staring at him. 

Sir shakes his head and the ghost fades away.  Since he has their attention, he taps the band tied tight around his upper arm.  “In case anyone has forgotten, keep your phase discriminator on and active at all times.  We haven’t lost anyone to the radiation pockets yet, and I don’t intend to start today.”

“And keep your weapon holstered, Paris,” Carey prods.  “No need to make the voids any bigger.”

“Thanks for the reminder, though I’m not sure what else we could lose,” Tom says with a sigh.

Side by side, they traverse the darkened corridors using SIMs beacons to light the way toward the one operational turbolift.  The silence is thick and none of them dares break it.  Once inside, Sir shies away from the image of a blonde woman, garnering a concerned glance from Tom.

Now, more than ever, Sir realizes that _Voyager_ herself has changed.  She is no longer the safe haven she once was, promising to return them to their loved ones.  She is a graveyard.  She is a curse.

But not for long.

“Ah!  Captain, Commander, Chief, welcome aboard.”  The friendly face of the EMH-turned-ECH greets them as they exit onto the bridge.  “I trust you’ve self-medicated appropriately for this little excursion?”

“Ten cc’s arithrazine, as prescribed,” Tom confirms.

“Doctor,” Sir says.  “Did you gather the last of the supplies?”

“Yes.  Emergency Holographic Stockboy at your service.  Everything has been collected in cargo bay one.”

“Tom, get those supplies transported to the _Flyer,_ then finish off the checklist.  Joe, bring our thrusters online and make sure the other systems are ready to handle this last flight.  I have a few things to take care of up here.”

“Aye, Sir,” the men reply, taking their leave.

“Computer, transfer command control from the ECH back to me.  Authorization, Chakotay-lambda-one.”

_“Authorization confirmed.  Command control has been transferred.  ECH has been deactivated.”_

“Well, that was fun while it lasted,” the Doctor says, his red uniform replaced once again by the more familiar blue version. 

“Unless you have anything else you need, please report to the _Flyer.”_

For a moment, the Doctor seems taken aback at Sir’s abrupt tone, but he holds his tongue and retreats from the bridge without a word.

* * *

Sir has a number of places he needs to visit before he’s ready.  But first and foremost, he must stop at his office.  If he’s taking one last tour of the ship, he intends to do it with something of hers in his pocket. 

To conserve what little power is left, all doors have been left open, so when he arrives on deck two, he needs only to turn a corner and walk straight to his desk.  He settles in his old chair and reaches for the bottom drawer, moving aside a few pads, a picture.  He’s leaned over, feeling around in the dark.  But he finds nothing. 

He shines the beacon towards the back.

The velvet pouch is gone.

A knot tightens in his chest, his stomach lurches, and he slams the drawer closed.

 _‘Of all the things that have disappeared from the ship in the last months, why did this have to be one of them?’_ he curses silently.

He focuses on a piece of artwork hanging on the wall, swallows his disappointment once more, then heaves himself from the chair and continues on.

* * *

Every deck holds another memory and another bitter tease of what used to be.  He’s walking on graves.  Pushing past ghosts of the living.   Nicoletti died there.  Ashmore was overtaken here.  He remembers blood and screams, the horror of crewmen murdering each other to keep from being killed themselves.

Then he turns a corner and sees – with tired eyes – living, breathing people going about their day. 

The juxtaposition of life and death is almost too much for him to handle.

By the time he realizes that he has to take a break or risk collapsing, he’s traversed the length and breadth of decks one through seven.  His pace grinds to a near halt, his vision is begins to blur.  From his pocket he retrieves a hypospray, dials up the dosage, and injects himself in the neck.

The next few steps are heavy, made possible only by the bracing of a hand against the bulkhead, but soon feeling returns to his feet and he pulls himself onward.

He’s again moving at a decent clip by the time he reaches the midpoint of deck eight, but a tear in the carpeting trips his foot and he stumbles, causing him to crash to his knees.  Pain shoots up his legs.  A ghost, clad in a silver suit, walks right through him and it sends a shudder through his whole body.  He casts his eyes downward until she is gone.

With a groan, Sir pulls himself upright to continue on towards astrometrics.  Once inside, he activates the viewscreen, bringing forth a brilliant, blinding image of the closest star.

One hundred, fifty-two million kilometers and this will all be over.

Gas flairs, creating a momentary hotspot which then quickly dissipates.  He imagines that _Voyager_ will cause much the same reaction when she is flown into the corona.  He wonders what, if anything, he’ll feel riding her to oblivion. 

Relief, he thinks.  That is what he will feel.

He turns off the display and leaves the room. 

No further than thirty paces down the hall is a place he’s been dreading more than most.

An empty slot.  A missing pod.  He considers walking on past but owes them at least a moment of silence.  Head bowed, he remembers:

Four people seeking refuge from the battle that was raging within, unable to seal the hatch in time. Powerless to stop from being ejected by one of their own.

They couldn’t close the hatch.

_They couldn’t close the hatch._

His fist impacts the bulkhead above the docking clamps, leaving a dent and splitting his knuckles.  He stares at the blood as it drips to his fingertips, but he doesn’t feel much in the way of actual pain these days, and maybe that’s for the best.

He wipes the back of his hand against his trousers and drags himself away.

* * *

Deck nine, section twelve. 

Until now, his trek has been punctuated by absolute silence.  As such, the muffled sobs coming from the last quarters on the left are startling to say the least.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t come back in here,” Tom says as Sir steps through the open door.  The commander is sitting on the side of an unmade bed, head hung, one hand on the edge of a white bassinet.  Tears are falling down his cheeks but he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

“After she died… once we got the ship back.  I couldn’t bring myself to cross the threshold.  I slept on Harry’s couch for six weeks.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You had other things on your mind,” Tom says, looking up.  “And you had me do the relocations, remember?”  Sir watches as his friend runs a finger along the pristine rail then wipes the dust onto his trousers.  “Somehow, living with his ghost was easier than living with hers.  Even when it came time to pack, I couldn’t do it myself.  I sent Sam.”

Tom touches a finger to the mobile which hangs above the small bed.  He spins it absentmindedly and the motion is mesmerizing.

“She’d have been a month old, you know.  B’Elanna was due the day we arrived at the planet.  The worst part is, I forgot.  I didn’t realize until a few days later.”  He stills the mobile.  “I forgot, Chakotay.  The birth of my child, what would have been the happiest day of my life, and I forgot.”

“So did I,” Sir admits softly.

“I worked so hard for what I had… I tried so hard…” Tom looks up, eyes pleading for an answer, an absolution.  “How did things go so wrong, so quickly?”

Sir wants to convey words of compassion.  He wants to somehow alleviate the man’s suffering.  But he has no meaningful way to do so, and as such, they linger in silence.

_“Carey to Captain Chakotay.”_

Sir clears his throat, taps his combadge, “Go ahead.”

“Everything checks out in engineering.  Thrusters are ready to make the burn to leave orbit.  You’ll have enough for a twenty-two second burst.  Feel free to set autopilot whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Joe.  Make any last stops you need, then report back to the _Flyer_.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Carey… good work.”

The line goes silent.

“The _Flyer’s_ packed,” Tom says, standing from the bed.  “Let’s get this over with.  Maybe once this ship is gone, it’ll be easier to forget.”

Tom walks out without looking back.  But Sir first reaches to the mobile and takes from it a small, golden _Voyager_ and tucks it in his pocket _._

In the hall Tom turns left toward the turbolift.  Sir stops him with a hand on his shoulder.  “You should go to the _Flyer,”_ he says.  “I’ve got this.”

“What are you talking about?  I thought we were going to do this together.”

“This is something I have to do alone, Tom.”

“Wait…” Tom says, realization dawning in his eyes.  “You’re not coming back with us, are you?”

Sir shakes his head.

“Damn.  I knew it,” Tom says, taking a step back as if painful decisions were contagious.

“It comes down to the fact that the Doctor can’t say what will happen when I die,” Sir explains methodically.  “He thinks there’s a possibility that the alien will regain control of its abilities – “

“And that it will timeshift again and attack another one of us.  I know.  I was there.”  His expression is pained for a minute then changes to a morbid smile and he lets out a chuckle.  “At least you have a good reason.  For a minute I thought you were going to say that a captain’s gotta go down with his ship.”

“This ship already took down her captain,” Sir says softly.  “And maybe that’s part of it, but I really don’t have a death wish. You all need to live free of this final threat.”

For a moment, Sir thinks that this man, his friend, will try to dissuade him, try to get him to wait a while longer, until the end draws closer.  But instead, Tom takes a deep breath, extends a hand, and says, “It’s been an honor, Chakotay.”

“The honor was mine,” he says, meeting him with a firm grip.

“What do I tell them?”

“The truth.  They deserve the truth.  There are letters for each of them in my nightstand.  Please see they’re delivered.  And my medicine bundle, it’s on my bed.  Would you bury it, under one of the fruit trees in the grove?”

Tom’s eyes cast downward.  “Of course.”

“Thank you for your help and your sacrifices, Tom.  Those people, our crew, they’re lucky to have you to lead them.  I know you’ll keep them safe.”

From his pocket, Sir produces the toy _Voyager._ He places it into his friend's hand. 

“And please, don’t forget everything.”

* * *

With the _Flyer_ safely away, Sir feels the last of his ties to life being cut.  Only one thread remains.

Her quarters are straight ahead.  They’re his last stop and the only room left onboard with the door still locked.  He hasn’t been there since before she died, but now he knows he needs to.  Like Tom, this is his last chance to make some kind of peace.

Sir pops the side panel in the hall, allowing a manual release.  The door creaks and stops at halfway open, but it’s wide enough for him to squeeze through.

For how long the quarters have been shut up, he expects stale air, musty, and dank.  But it’s not.  To his dismay, it smells like her. 

He runs a hand along her dining table; two candles, never lit, remain in their holders.  How many dinners had they had there?  How many laughs?  How many arguments?  Was there even a way to count? 

He tears himself away from his recollections and looks around the dimly lit room.  Her pictures still hang on the walls, a uniform jacket rests on the back of a chair. 

Softly, he pads into the bedroom.  Her sanctuary.  The only place he never really knew her.  And oh, he so wanted to know her there.

His beacon skims the chamber; dust motes catch in the beam.  Light reflects off the mirror, then again from another shiny surface sitting upright on her dresser.  He walks towards it and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.  In a silver frame, he finds a picture of them. 

“New Earth,” he whispers, “Kathryn…”  He is truly shocked to find the photograph there, never believing she’d have kept such a thing, especially not where she would undoubtedly see it every day.

Memories, unbidden, flood back to him.  He feels the warm sunlight on his face, sees her green dress flowing in the breeze.  For a moment he is lost; it makes coming back to reality that much more difficult. 

Sir reverently puts the picture back in its place and turns to leave, but a faded image on the bed gives him pause.  He sweeps his light across the pillows, illuminating ever-so-slightly the form of a woman there. 

He gasps.

It’s her.

She’s sitting with her back against the headboard, ankles crossed, wearing a pink silk nightgown and robe.  She harbors an expression of sadness as she stares down at her lap. 

His first instinct is to look away, he’s not meant to see her like this, at least, not here.  But his eyes remain fixed to the vision.

Tentatively, Sir steps forward to see what has her attention.  The ghostly image wafts away for a moment and then back again.  In one hand she has a small gold bar, the one he lost months ago.  In the other, a set of pips.  On her lap is a velvet pouch. 

 _The_ velvet pouch.

She closes her fists around the insignias, holds them both to her lips and looks towards the ceiling.

“Kathryn,” he whispers, testing.  She doesn’t look up.

“I understand,” he says.  “I finally… understand.” 

And surely, he does.  These hallucinations aren’t just memories and hauntings, misfires within a damaged mind, they’re glimpses into the past.  The chroniton particles – remnants from the aliens that overtook them, the ones that riddle the ship making her too dangerous to destroy in open space – when viewed through the lens of the menace in his brain, must have been allowing him to _see_ through the spatial tears.  And if he can see into the past, then maybe, just maybe…

He runs from the room and goes straight to her desk.  In one swoop, he slides everything off of the top and onto the floor, save for one padd which he quickly clears of all other data.

Then, he takes a steadying breath to collect his thoughts, and begins to record.

He pours his heart and soul, every last ounce of hope he can muster into that letter.  He speaks of alien invasions and uninformed decisions, he tells the tales of personal sacrifice and desperation, he professes and he pleads and bleeds into that letter.

When he is through, he uses the tricorder from his belt to locate a pocket of chroniton particles near her dresser.  Then he fires a low-intensity phaser beam into the outer fringe and tosses the padd into the void.


	12. Day 24

* * *

**Day 24**

It takes Ma’am the better part of the day before she finally makes it to sickbay.  She’s been kept apprised of Chakotay’s situation, has been assured that he’ll make a full recovery once the radiation has been cleaned from his body.  She knows without a doubt that he’s back in control of his faculties. 

But still, she hesitates.

It’s not his medical status or even the ship’s status that’s kept her away so long.  She lies to herself and says she wants to be absolutely sure this immediate threat has passed, which, with the retreat of the alien vessel and the disappearance of the parasite in his head, seems to indicate that they’re in the clear.  But the truth is, it’s going to be painful for her to look into the eyes of her attacker, knowing that he was wholly unable to stop from hurting her.  She can’t keep from rehashing every interaction they’d had in the last weeks, blaming herself for not noticing that something was wrong.  And then, there’s the other information she refuses to think about, will absolutely _not_ discuss with him… She will _not_.

When she can no longer justify her absence at his side, she makes her way to where he is, hoping to keep the encounter brief.

“Kathryn,” he says, sitting up slightly.  He pinches his eyes closed and she understands he must still be fighting one hell of a headache.

She wants to go to him, it is an almost primal need for her to put a hand on his chest.  But she finds herself rooted to a spot ten paces away.  Her eyes dip to his hand, the one that had been so firmly clasped around her throat not long ago.

“I…”  He sees where her gaze is fixed.  “Are you okay?”

She nods.

“I’m not sure what to say,” he begins.  “I’m so sorry, Kathryn.  There are no words…”

“It’s alright,” she says, stepping only slightly closer to him.  “This wasn’t your fault.”

“I feel like I’m in a fog, but I remember.  I remember it all.  I remember what it felt like to have my hands…” he lifts them, stares at them, fingers spread.  “To want to…”

She swallows back her hesitation and steels herself enough for the both of them. “I told you, I’m fine.  You didn’t hurt me or anyone else.”

“I almost killed you.  I wanted to kill you.  I was so close.”

“But you didn’t,” she reminds.

“Only because you stopped me.  I felt its anger, so much rage at knowing it was going to fail.  It wanted to… another moment and it – I – would have.”

She licks her lips, her mouth suddenly dry.  “You weren’t in control of your actions, you can’t blame yourself.  I certainly don’t.”

He sinks back, resting his head on his pillow for a moment.  When he speaks again, it’s to the ceiling.  “You’re right,” he resigns.  “What happened on the bridge wasn’t my fault, but certainly the things that led me to that point were.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, drawing closer still.

“I should have known something was wrong.  There were signs that I ignored.”

“What kind of signs?” Ma’am asks, truly curious.  She’s feeling more comfortable by the moment and leans against the edge of his bed.

“For starters, the headaches.  They were so bad, and yet, I lived with them for weeks.  I never got checked out.  I tried to, I think…”

“You were under the influence of the alien,” she says. “It must have known to stay away from being scanned.”

“Okay, then how about all the spying I was doing?  I was so tired, I had been staying awake all night just… reading.  Studying.  Journals, personal logs, letters home.  I read them all.  Hundreds of things, from every member of this crew.  Some of them going back years.  Why didn’t I question that?”

“It was studying us, learning everything it could,” she says, her heart pounding.  This is the conversation she desperately wanted to avoid.“Surely it had a way to hide most of that from you.” 

“Yes, but I know things, Kathryn,” he says, and she can’t find a way to stop him.  She should stop him, but instead she looks down to the floor.  “Things I shouldn’t know because of... because of _it._  Do you remember, in my office, during the middle of all this, how I knew about Harry’s personal effects and B’Elanna’s memorial flag?  I knew because I had read Seven’s report and Tom’s letter to his father the night before.”

“I do remember that.  But I was about to tell you those things anyway…”

“I know that Jad Tabor and Olandra Jor are back together.  She told him she loves him.”

Ma’am can’t help a small smile.  “That’s not such a horrible thing to know.”

“Carlson,” he says, lifting himself up.  “He has a drug problem.  We have to get him help.”

She bites her lip.  This news is disturbing.  “We will.  We will get him help.”

“Oh…” he remembers, rubbing his forehead.  “I drugged Neelix…”

At this, Ma’am’s expression grows even more concerned.  “You did?”

He nods.  “He was going to rat me – it – out.  That night we encountered turbulence while we were in the mess hall.  I left a stack of padds when we bolted for the bridge.  Neelix found them and confronted me about it.  I snuck into Carlson’s quarters and stole some of… whatever it is he has, then I drugged Neelix.”

“Okay.  So, you might owe him an apology,” she says in jest.  Despite everything she’s just heard, and she’s certain there is so much more, she wants nothing but to ease his guilt.  “But he’s okay now.  No permanent damage done.”

“I know things about you, too, Kathryn.”

She lets his not-quite revelation hang in the air. 

“It’s fine, Chakotay,” she says softly.  “Really.  You didn’t choose to violate anyone’s privacy.”

“That _thing._ It was fascinated by you and by our relationship.”

She thinks for a moment.  “I’m the captain, it must have needed to know how I would behave and how to manipulate me.  It was probably using our personal interactions to that end.”

“Maybe.  But I think there was more to it than that...” She watches him shake the thought away.  “Regardless, I can’t forget what I saw,” he says.  “I want to, more than anything I want to erase all of this from my memory.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.  All you can really do is keep what you know confidential.” 

“Yes.  I most certainly will, for the others.” He meets her eyes, holds her there in an extended moment.  “But for you…”

She bows her head.  “Don’t, please.”

“I know about the struggles you’re having,” he says, no holds barred.  “I wish you felt as though you could come to me.  You know that I’m here for you.”

“I do.”

“Seeking help, admitting that this duty is too much for one person, it’s not a sign of weakness.”

“I know.”

“And having feelings for me,” he says with confidence in his voice, “maybe even being in love… wanting more from our relationship, having dreams for our future.  Those aren’t sentiments you have to keep bottled up inside.”

Tears prickle behind her shut eyelids.  Her throat tightens.  He’s halfway across this tenuous bridge now and despite every promise she made to herself before coming here, she owes it to him to meet him halfway.

“I know things about you, too.”  She feels herself drawn to look him in the eyes. 

“You do?”

“I knew about the alien before you did.  It’s why I came to the bridge.  It’s how I knew to use an analgesic to give you back control.”

“How? Tell me?”

“I was reading in bed, just a few minutes before _Voyager_ made contact with the alien vessel.  I looked up and a padd came… well, flying through the air and landed on the floor.  It was a letter from you, from the future.”

“What did it say?”

“Future-you alerted me to the danger we encountered this morning.  But in his experience, I had let that craft onboard.  The distress call was a ruse.  In his timeline, when Tuvok and I and a few others went to greet them, we were attacked, overwhelmed by the same kind of creature that has been manipulating you.  In short order, _Voyager_ was intercepted by a much larger vessel and boarded. 

“The unaffected crew armed themselves and fought back, but with a high number of casualties.  They had trouble making progress because every time they’d kill one of the intruders, another crewmember would turn on them.  It took a while, but eventually they figured out that these… things were time-shifters.  The host would die, and the displaced parasite would jump to someone else, essentially appearing before they could be stopped.”

“Keep going,” he says.  “What else?”

“Future-you wouldn’t settle for killing the infected crew, so he ordered everyone to hide until a real plan could be made.  In the process of gathering information, they realized that future-you had one of these things inside his head but wasn’t affected by it.  The only reason they could come up with was that he’d been using an analgesic to stem his headaches.  The hydrocortiline was numbing the creature, rendering it unable to take control.  Armed with that knowledge, they were able to fight back.  But not before losing almost half the crew.”

Ma’am watches his face while he processes the abridged information.

“What happened to you?” he asks, softly. 

“At some point, there was a cease fire.  We met in the brig, for the safety of both sides.  The alien – I –  offered a truce.  I’d keep the crew that was already joined, future-you could have the rest.  But he wouldn’t agree.”  She looks to the floor.  “I tried to kill him – to kill you.  There was a struggle.  He beamed out.”

“That’s how I lost my rank bar,” he realizes, then his tone becomes urgent.  “Did you escape?  Did he save you?”

“No,” she says, bluntly.  “Neurazine gas.  They filled the cell with it.”

She watches as this news appears to physically hit him in the chest.  His next words are hushed.  “You’d have been overdosed.  Like the one we found in the conference room.”

Ma’am nods. 

“B’Elanna?”  His voice is still soft.

“ _Voyager_ was being flown to the aliens’ home planet, where they wouldn’t have stood a chance.  She initiated a core overload and then ejected it manually at warp.”

“But there was blow back through the housing,” he realizes, voice grim.

Ma’am nods again, her stomach begins to churn.  She hopes he’ll stop short of making her think again of how B’Elanna would have died in that fiery explosion.

“I won’t make you rehash anymore,” he says, clearly sensing her unease and possibly reaching his own limit.  “Do you still have the padd?”

She shakes her head, and it’s not a total lie.  The padd had vanished, though its contents remain safely stored within her personal files.  “All of the objects we were gifted from the future have disappeared,” she tells him.

“History didn’t repeat itself.”

“Thank goodness.”

“What happened to them?  Did they make it to that planet Harren spoke of?”

She considers her words carefully and decides to omit the smallest of details.  She won’t voice it, though she wonders for a fleeting moment if he succeeded in flying _Voyager_ into the star, or if her intervention came in time to save him from such agony.

“They did,” she says.  “Those who were left, they would have survived.  But it’s not the kind of future that I want for this crew.  It’s not the kind of future I want for _us_.”

The connotation of her last words hangs in the air.  She waits a moment, expects that he will press her for more personal aspects of the letter.  But when he doesn’t, when he simply rolls onto his side and sighs, she finds herself longing to broach the subject.  She can hardly believe the next words that issue from her mouth.

“I know how you feel about me, too.”

His eyes lift up.  “You do?”

“Yes.”

“And… does that change anything?”

“I’m not sure that it can, at least, not right now.  I hope you understand… even after all of _this,_ nothing has really changed.”

“I do understand,” he says, reaching for her hand.  His touch is warm, it settles her once again.  “But maybe we could talk about these kinds of things more often?  Try to get back to where we were, when things were easier between us?  So that in the event we’re whisked home tomorrow…”

“We won’t lose any time?”

He smiles and his dimples set her heart ablaze. “Are you making temporal anomaly jokes?” 

“No,” she laughs.  It feels so good to laugh.  “I most certainly am not.”


	13. Epilogue

* * *

**Day 64**

His daughter is born into a world of chaos and yet, everything seems to come to a halt at the doors to sickbay.  This moment that has been so long in the making, that he worried might never come, finally has.  And the result is pure joy.

“Hi, Daddy,” his wife says with a smile that lights up the room.  He looks upon the face of his child, she’s perfect in every way.  Her mother – his wife – is tired but not weak, she is thoroughly empowered by the new life she cradles in her arms.

When she hands the baby to him for the first time, he can hardly believe how tiny she is.  The little one coos and wriggles, he bends to kiss her hair and nothing has ever felt more like love.

Daddy’s not sure how much time passes in this blur of peace and new life.  After a while, the family moves to the more comfortable surroundings of their quarters where Earth – and their Starfleet escorts – are on display outside the viewport.

The baby has just drifted off to sleep when there is a chime at the door.

“Come in,” says his wife from where she is seated on their bed.  She pulls her robe tight around her body.

“Captain, Commander,” he says.  “I’d like you to meet our daughter.”  He holds the baby tight, pride burns deep within him.

“Her name is Miral,” his wife announces.

The captain all but runs towards them.  He can see the stress and sorrow of the last few days melt away in the wake of good fortune.

“I see we made it,” his wife says, moving to a chair.

Chakotay smiles, dimples peek through, and he nods.  “That we did.”

“What are you doing here?  Surely there are a million things to take care of.”

“And none of them, not a single one, will get in the way of us meeting our newest crewmember,” the captain says, stroking the baby’s dark hair.  “Oh, B’Elanna.  She’s perfect.  Congratulations.”

Daddy watches as his wife beams with pride.  “So, the two of you will finally be free to be together now.  Think one of these is in your future?” he asks, gesturing to the baby, now asleep in his arms. 

“Tom!” his wife hisses from behind.

The captain chuckles uncomfortably, glances to Chakotay who is wearing an expression of confusion.

“I’m not sure what you’re implying,” Chakotay says.

“Oh, come on.  It’s not a big secret that you two have feelings for each other,” Daddy says, with a shrug.  “And now that we’re back, well, guess you don’t have to worry about the whole parameters thing, am I right?  Now you can finally cross all of those barriers that have been in your way.”

Chakotay’s jaw is set, his eyes narrowed.

“Tom,” the captain says curtly.  “Can I hold her now?” 

“Oh, sure.”  He carefully maneuvers the little one into her arms, then Chakotay takes him with a hand on his shoulder and moves him out of earshot. 

“Look,” Chakotay says, “I’m willing to give you a little bit of leeway considering all of the new-parent stress you must be under.  But I’d appreciate it if you don’t discuss this theory you have regarding me and the captain.  It’s really none of your business.”

“It’s true though,” he says with a flippant shrug.  “You said it yourself, there’s no use denying your feelings, and it’d be a damn shame to waste any more time.”

“I’m not denying anything, I’m simply stating that what Kathryn and I decide to pursue or not pursue is our prerogative and not open for speculation.”

“Right, right.  Your secret is safe with me.” Daddy can feel Chakotay’s eyes on him still as he stares down to the Earth below.  The tension is broken when his wife comes up close, carrying their precious bundle. “You know,” he says, contentment in his heart.  “I can’t decide which sight is more beautiful.”

“Oh, I think your wife and daughter would win that contest any day,” the captain replies with a smile.

Daddy kisses his wife on her cheek and the baby on her head.  The five of them all face the viewport now.

“It is hard to believe we’re really home, isn’t it?” the captain sighs, leaning in slightly to her first officer.  “And just in time for you to start your family.”

“It is rather amazing,” his wife agrees.

“Home,” Daddy repeats, his eyes trained on the lush planet below. 

“Yes.  We will do well here.  We will do very well indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note:  
> 1\. THANK YOU to the readers who put up with the (apparent) agony as I posted this day by day. It really wasn’t to torture you, it just takes a lot of work to get something like this put up in one fell swoop, so going slower is more manageable. I appreciate your patience.  
> 2\. The original prompt was from MiaCooper and was a challenge to make Janeway (of sound mind and body) do something extremely out-of-character and give up command.  
> 3\. I had four lovely people read this story before I published it and all four had different interpretations of the ending. To be honest, it surprised me, but I think it’s great (I have my own ideas, of course). Anyway, as Mia reminded me halfway through writing this, the first rule of Horror is to leave yourself open for a sequel...and apparently ambiguity is the best friend of suspense.


End file.
